The Resident Attachment
by Maejones
Summary: After months of correspondence, Molly travels around the world to marry her soulmate. However, upon arriving in British Columbia, her intended looks and acts nothing like the person in her letters. Deathly ill and vulnerable, Molly accepts help from the city's lone Investigative Specialist for hire, Sherlock Holmes. Has she jumped from the flames to the fire? Historical Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own any Sherlock characters!_

* * *

 _The year is 1898 in the city of New Westminster, British Columbia. It is the former British Colony's oldest city with a population just under seven thousand. It is an economic hub for the region, the largest city in Western Canada but still very much a "backwater" by English standards. The streets are unpaved. Board walks constitute sidewalks. Gold Miners seeking riches often empty supplies in the shops on their way to the Klondike (much to the frustration of Mrs. Hudson). Local government officials (including Mycroft Holmes, the current magistrate) try to sort out what to do if those new 'horseless carriages' take to the streets (although some argue they're just a fad and can never truly replace a reliable steed). It's the new world struggling to escape the old, not unlike our heroine, Molly Hooper._

* * *

The door to 221 Ash Street swung open as John Watson skipped up the front steps. He knew instantly by the pallid colour of Mrs. Hudson's complexion something was amiss.

"Good Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, is Mr. Holmes still in residence?"

"Oh, Dr. Watson, my heavens! You've come home just at the right time."

Mrs. Hudson, dressed in her usual white, puffed, long sleeve shirt and practical, grey linen skirt that fell to her ankles, laid a hand against the side of her face and slumped against the door frame with a wearied expression.

"Are you unwell?" John wiped his boots on the door mat.

She waved a hand at her face. "I'm not ill, if that's what you're concerned about. It's just, he has a pair of ruffians removing the bath from upstairs to replace it with, well, it looks like a medieval torture device."

She held open the door and pointed a shaky hand at the stairs.

"Oh, and would you just look at my rug?" She clutched her chest. "I think there's a bit of manure in that."

John chuckled. "I'll go up and look in on them."

He quickly unlaced his boots, doffed his hat and dropped his bag. He turned back when he thought of something.

"Don't put that away, Mrs. Hudson, I have need of it yet."

She pursed her lips and put her hands on her generous hips. "I'm not your valet, Dr. Watson. It will still be here when you come back down."

He smiled tightly. "Um, okay, thank you, then."

He took two steps at a time up the stairs, careful to avoid the deposits of mud on the steps, and jogged to the bathroom. The scene was almost exactly as Mrs. Hudson described. He scratched his brow.

"What is this about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned, still wearing his rumpled beige sleepwear and deep purple dressing gown. His hair was a mess of curls atop his head. His light, bluish-green eyes widened momentarily.

"John! You're home early," he replied. "We're just remodeling."

John crossed his arms as he peered past the two large men, still wearing their boots and preparing to pick up the heavy cast iron tub. The space the tub formerly occupied was empty and next to it stood an assembly of pipes that looked very much like a cage. John tilted his head as he tried to determine what he was appraising.

"I don't understand. The bath is only a few years old," he said slowly. "What on earth is that?"

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Yes, but it's already obsolete! This is far superior in every way, my friend. It's a needle shower. I had it imported all the way from England. I've always thought it quite uncivilized to wallow in one's own filth."

John moved out of the way as the two men tromped past with the tub. He had yet to completely close his mouth as he looked back at his house mate.

Sherlock stepped into the network of pipes that arced around him. "Yes, yes, yes, why waste precious time soaking in lukewarm, fetid bathwater when one can be quickly rinsed with fresh, hot water in a matter of minutes?"

John twisted his brow. "Do I even want to know how much this cost?"

Sherlock looked askance. "Cost? What about worth? What is your health worth, John?"

John blinked at him several times. "Hmm, well, what is it worth then?"

Sherlock lifted his chin and stared down his nose. "About five hundred dollars."

"F-Five hundred dollars? F-f-five hundred?" John almost fell over. "That's my wages for a year if I'm lucky. Christ!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, get a hold of yourself, man! I felt I deserved a reward after sorting out that claim dispute for Mr. Connelly, not to mention, there was fifty ounces of gold in that jar he gave me. Fifty! I hardly knew what to do with it."

"So, you squandered it!"

Sherlock huffed. "Only half!"

John fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "Lord, Sherlock, what did you do with the rest of it?"

He made a face. "Why the hell do you think I had that hot water heater installed? It wasn't to make Mrs. Hudson's life easier."

John shook his head. "Unbelievable. To think what I could do with that money-"

"Why are you home early?" Sherlock interrupted him. "You normally work well into the evening. It's only one o'clock."

John took a breath. "A patient of mine is in a spot of trouble. I had hoped you could assist."

Sherlock finally stepped out of his shower contraption and brushed by John on the way downstairs. "Sounds boring."

John hurried after him. "I haven't even told you what it's about yet."

Sherlock flicked his fingers up towards the ceiling as he descended the stairs. "Some young woman is in distress. Marital situation."

"H-how do you know that?"

Sherlock exhaled noisily, stopped and turned half-way through his descent down the stairs.

"Because it always involves a young woman with you. Most of the clients you bring me are damsels in distress. Also, you have that," he swirled his finger as he pointed, " _look_ on your face. You are the equivalent of an emotional dish towel, John. Your expression at present is a reflection of hers, whoever she is."

"And how do you know she has a marital issue?"

Sherlock grinned. "If she was unattached, you wouldn't dare introduce her to me."

John felt his face go tight in a glower. "I'm not worried about your effect on the fairer sex, thank-you! You're not even interested in becoming attached so it's scant competition."

The larger man shrugged and resumed his march down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, who had been traversing the parlor, came to a stuttering stop.

"Mr. Holmes!" She scolded. "I do wish you would get dressed. It's indecent to swan about in your bedroom attire at this hour."

He gave her a quizzical look. "Why? Do we have guests?"

"N-no!"

"Then whose decency am I offending? Yours, Madam Hudson?"

She waved at him as she went red in the face but continued to her destination. "Pfft."

John followed Sherlock into the parlor where he flopped onto his lounge upholstered in dark green velvet.

"To be serious, though. I do need your help, this girl needs your help."

"What could she possibly need from me?"

"Well, you."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "John, you make no sense at all."

"She needs you. Look, I promise this is not boring. Yes, she's married but she swears it's a fraud. She says the man who is her husband is not the person she came to meet."

Sherlock's cheek twitched. John knew he had his attention then.

"She just arrived here from England, probably on the same train as that damned shower device, actually. It was a marriage by proxy but she says she never agreed to it," John recounted as he paced. "The husband, the one she says has forged her signature, is insistent on collecting her from the hospital and spiriting her away almost this moment. The sisters have managed to delay him but he's got the law on his side, I believe."

"When does this get interesting?" Sherlock asked with a groan as his head fell back.

John folded his arms triumphantly. "She's dying. She'll likely die in the next week. Why would a man she swears she's never met, nor wants to become better acquainted with, want to take on such a burden, let alone attempt a journey with her into the interior?"

Sherlock's head came up. "Why indeed?"

John smiled smugly. "Interested, then? Have I managed to persuade you to help?"

Sherlock pushed himself up from his chair and adjusted the lapels of his dressing gown.

"Of course, who can resist a damsel in distress?" He asked sardonically. "What is the fair maiden's name?"

John drew in a breath. "Molly Hooper."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock dropped a coin into Wiggin's outstretched hand. "How is he today?"

Wiggins patted the large, shire draft cross' shoulder with his reddish brown sorrel coat. "Redbeard's a brute. Healthy as a, heh heh, well, horse! Turns out the limp was just his shoe coming loose. I got it replaced."

Sherlock stroked his hand over his large steed's nose as he cooed to him. "Glad to hear it, my boy."

Redbeard had been an impulse purchase several years before when a lumber company rejected him for being unsuitable as a heavy hauler. He was actually about a hand taller than most draft horses but his overall skeletal structure wasn't quite as sturdy. However, neither was the ideal gentlemen's ride, being slower and less nimble than most preferred. It was his temperament that had attracted Sherlock, though. Redbeard, at two, had been an old soul; calm, even tempered, and impossible to spook. Some thought him slow, the man who sold him believed he'd not gotten enough air at birth, but he was actually quite the clever, mischievous spirit.

Redbeard snorted and shifted his weight from one side to the other. Then he passed gas just as John took a deep breath and was about to mount his own horse.

"Good Lord!" John wheezed over his saddle. "Phew, never mind his limp. I'm concerned about his diet. What have you been feeding him?"

Sherlock looked around the nose of Redbeard at Wiggins and narrowed his eyes. "Yes, what has he been eating?"

"Ah, you said I could give him some treats. Mrs. Chan down there in Chinatown sold me some dried beets. He likes 'em."

"Dried beets?" Sherlock repeated.

Wiggins' eyes skittered away. Sherlock frowned.

"How many of these dried beets did you give him?"

"Um, see, I made the error of leaving the satchel in his stall. He got into it and ate the whole lot. He's not distressed but he's had wind all day."

Sherlock scratched Redbeard's nose. "Hmm, you've been a naughty boy, have you?"

Redbeard dipped his head. Another fowl sound issued from his rear. John started laughing as he urged his smaller brown gelding away.

"Right. I think I'll lead."

Sherlock swung up onto his horse's back and nudged his sides. Redbeard lumbered away from the hitch and poked along. Sherlock urged him to a quicker pace alongside John.

"Which hospital is our damsel at?" Sherlock asked.

John raised his brow. "St. Mary's of course. Dr. Lecroix took ill today and the sisters asked me to look in on his patients, that's how I came to meet Miss Hooper. Royal Columbian wanted nothing to do with her and I don't blame them, she appears to have a terrible case of consumption. She's coughing quite violently."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Consumption? It's a wonder the nuns admitted her either."

"They're nuns, Sherlock," John chuckled. "It's what they do. Besides, the whole reason they built that hospital was to care for people who wouldn't otherwise receive help. This girl-"

"You keep referring to her as a girl. How old is she?"

"A few years younger than you and I. Twenty-five, I believe."

Sherlock made a sound. "That hardly makes her a girl."

He had just turned thirty himself.

John shrugged. "W-well, I suppose she's not very young, but, you'll see. She's small. Her face . . ."

"Good God, John, listen to you!" Sherlock snapped. "You really must learn how to fortify yourself against the opposite sex as I have done. They are people, just like you and I, and are in no greater need of rescue because of their physical appearance than any other creature. Really, I'm quite disappointed in how easily swayed you are by their histrionic nature. Did this woman flutter her lashes at you? Did she gaze at you limpidly with a trembling lip? Do you know they have evolved these attributes in order to procure our protection according to Darwin? Really, man, your life will be a lot less complicated if you accept this fact and seek to overcome these base instincts."

John's eyes slid sideways at him. "I think you are taking great liberties with Darwin's theory, Sherlock. My life is hardly complicated. I'm thirty-three this year and unencumbered. I seek to complicate it, in actual fact."

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "Not with this dying siren, I hope."

John jerked his reins to bring his ride to an abrupt stop. He turned sideways in his saddle and glowered at Sherlock.

"No, of course not and I don't have compassion for her because she is a woman, I'll have you know. I feel compassion for her because she is a human being in a terrible predicament. You forget that I spent five years on the continent cleaning up after innumerable pointless skirmishes and I've seen enough suffering to last a lifetime. I would have her last days on this Earth be in comfort and without fear, not that I would expect you to understand such sentiment, and all this regardless of her pretty face."

A smile tugged the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Pretty face?"

John sputtered a sigh. "Oh, be quiet!"

Fortunately, St. Mary's hospital was but a ten minutes journey from their residence, as opposed to the larger Royal Columbian closer to a half hour's ride. The hospital had only been opened two years previous and was well equipped with modern amenities, including a novel fire suppression system, but none of this would help poor little Miss Molly Hooper, Sherlock knew. There was some argument that the disease of consumption could be attributed to a growth of small organisms in a person's lungs (as some radically theorized). Exciting experiments out of France seemed promising to develop ways to combat these organisms, but all of this conjecture was in its infancy.

"She's in a room in the very top floor out of the way," John said as he stared up at the large structure with its bell tower on top. "Shall we?"

Sherlock's view travelled up to the third floor. "And in the farthest corner from our current location, am I correct?"

John smiled as he dismounted and secured his horse. "Yes, of course."

Sherlock twitched his brows. "Of course."

* * *

"Dr. Watson, you've returned!"

John hastily removed his hat and lowered his head in a bow. "Indeed I have, Miss Morstan, I mean, Sister Morstan. I have brought reinforcement."

The nurse held her hand to her chest and tittered a laugh. "I'm not a sister, Dr. Watson. Just Nurse will do."

Sherlock assessed the woman on whom John had an obvious crush (glaringly apparent by the manner in which his behavior had altered). She had exactly the sort of knowing smile and intelligent blue eyes that he knew John preferred. She reciprocated the admiration, he deduced as she smoothed her honey blonde hair poking out from beneath her cap.

"Are you his Inspector friend?" Her eyes turned to Sherlock.

He nodded and dipped his head. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service but I'm an Investigator, not an Inspector. Please don't confuse me with the fools that constitute our local police force."

She smiled in amusement as she looked him up and down. "No, I could never do that. I read Dr. Watson's accounts in The Columbianregularly, truth be told. Your adventures are all my mate Sarah can talk about. She's quite obsessed."

Sherlock's brow contorted as he looked around. "She's not employed here, is she?"

Nurse Morstan laughed again. "No, she's a teacher at the Sapperton Elementary School."

"Hmm. John, remind me never to visit that school."

John cleared his throat and changed the subject. "How is Miss Hooper doing?"

The nurse's face fell. "Not so well, I'm afraid. I tried to give her some paregoric to ease her coughing fits but she refused it."

"Has her, um, husband returned?"

"No, not yet thank the Lord, but he'll be back any moment, I'm certain. Poor thing. He took her trunk and most of her belongings. I managed to stow her handbag, but nothing else. What kind of man does that?"

John looked up at Sherlock.

"We will endeavor to help your patient," Sherlock replied.

They followed Nurse Morstan to a small room at the end of the corridor. At first when she pushed open the door, Sherlock thought the room unoccupied but when he crossed the threshold, he spied what looked like a bundle of clothing on the narrow cot within. The bundle heaved, shook and a pitiful, feminine coughing issued from the small form. He focussed on the figure on the bed. She laid with her back to them, the thin linens had slipped from her dainty shoulders which themselves were scantly covered by a hospital gown. Long, silken hair, which shone like a deep caramel amber, spilled across her pillow.

"Miss Hooper?" Nurse Morstan called softly. "Dr. Watson and his companion, Mr. Holmes have come to see you."

The young woman coughed a couple more times, then turned on the bed. Sherlock saw the slender curve of a porcelain cheek before being struck by two glistening brown eyes too large for the face they inhabited. They were wide and frightened, not unlike an injured bird. For a moment his breath caught in his chest as their gazes locked; her emotions seemed to traverse the space between them and seep into his soul. He felt her fear in that instant acutely as anything he had ever experienced firsthand. Then, her mouth dropped open as if something about him surprised her. He swallowed a bubble that had formed in his throat and took a steadying breath to settle his nerves. He closed his hands into fists at his side.

She winced and squeezed her eyes shut as deep spasms wracked her frame. Her chest rattled with every cough. Each additional breath she inhaled gurgled as if she were drowning. He resisted the inexplicable urge to cross the room and draw her into his arms so that he may provide her some strength in which to draw upon.

John hurried to her side. "Miss Hooper, why won't you allow yourself a little sedative? It will ease your suffering."

Her tremulous voice made Sherlock flinch. Her eyes kept darting in his direction.

"I do not want to sleep," she whispered. "I worry he will carry me off."

"Your husband, you mean?"

"H-He is n-not my husband," she cried.

Miss Hooper glanced up at Sherlock again with lips still parted. She blinked several times before she reached a shaking hand towards Nurse Morstan.

"Please, may I have my bag?"

Nurse Morstan retrieved a plain, brown handbag from behind a wash basin and handed it to Miss Hooper. She then helped the tiny woman sit up on the cot. Miss Hooper's long tresses fell forward, framing her delicate features. Despite the havoc the sickness had wreaked upon her body, hollowing her cheeks, he could not drag his eyes away from the fragile set of her lips above a determined chin. She rooted around her bag for a moment then withdrew a bundle of papers tied with some ribbon.

"The man who claims to be my husband is a l-liar," she said between coughs. "It is true that I came here with the intention of marrying him if we suited. This I cannot deny, but I never signed the papers he has that claim me as his wife. Now I have proof he is a fraud."

With trembling fingers, she retrieved a small, black and white photo and held it up for them all to see. Sherlock felt an instant chill when he saw the picture.

"He lied to me, can't you see?" She whispered. "He said he was the man in this picture but he's not . . . because this is _you_."


	3. Chapter 3

Molly could not remove her eyes from the man she'd been introduced to as Sherlock Holmes. His glorious brunette curls fell softly over his forehead as he studied the small portrait she'd given him. She had fallen in love with that image, never imagining that the live version would put it to shame. He was unusually attractive as the light from the small window to her left caressed his features. His each individual attribute on its own was almost garish but fit together as a construct of perfection. He had extremely high cheekbones, a long face and plush, bowed lips that belonged on a roman bust. His light eyes, somewhere in that undefined zone between blue and green, were incredibly intense underneath a heavy brow.

However, this vision before her was also terrifying. He was so much larger than herself and everyone else in the small room for that matter. He was attired almost entirely in black. Black trousers, a black vest and jacket and over all that, a long, heavy black coat that nearly swept the floor. He'd even removed a black, wide brimmed hat of a style she'd never seen before. The only variation in his colour palate was his high collared, dark grey shirt buttoned to one side with a shiny black pearl. All this contrasted severely with his pale complexion.

Molly had held her breath as long as she could manage it but the irritation in her throat was too much to ignore. She inhaled deeply and held it a moment as if she might be able to stave off the inevitable. She heard a fizzing sound in her ears a little like water boiling off a hot pan and then the need to cough overwhelmed her. Each hack dragged from her lungs like wet clothing wrung against a washboard. It was in these moments that the abstract concept of dying became tangible. Her vision swam. She had been robbed of everything in the last day- her meagre possessions, her dignity at having been taken in by a con, and worst of all, the fantasy of a future she'd envisioned. The person she thought she had fallen in love with didn't exist, at least, not in the way she had been led to believe.

"Miss Hooper-"

Molly stifled a cough and brushed back hair from her face. She was weak in body, perhaps soon to leave this world, but she was tired of the 'Miss' missive and the freedom in which people bandied about her name. Miss Hooper was what she was called when she was a school girl. Molly was a nickname she only allowed close friends to use.

"I-I am Dr. Margaret Hooper," she declared between stunted breaths. "I am a graduate of the L-London Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine for Women and I would thank you to address me with my proper t-title."

The great man's eyes widened slightly and his lips parted in surprise. Dr. Watson, at his left, seemed equally stunned. Nurse Morstan smiled like a pleased tabby and winked.

"Y-you are a doctor?" Mr. Holmes asked.

He looked to Dr. Watson with a question in his eyes. Dr. Watson crossed his arms and shrugged. Nurse Morstan laughed.

"What is so shocking, may I ask?" She queried. "Have you two gentlemen never heard of a female doctor before? It's all the rage nowadays for ambitious young women. Or is it that you do not approve of women working in such professions?"

Molly looked at them expectantly as she awaited their reply to her nurse's question. Mr. Holmes seemed to stare vacantly at her a moment, then his eyes narrowed as if studying her for the first time. His gaze was unsettling. She felt as if he had opened a window to her soul.

Finally he cleared his throat. "I have no opinion on what a woman should and shouldn't do in regards to her profession. My surprise can be attributed entirely to the immiscibility of the idea that someone intelligent enough to become a physician would behave so illogically in travelling to the other side of the world to marry a stranger. I did not know such irrationality could coexist with intellect. Then again, women are known to be disproportionately sentimental beings. Perhaps my bewilderment is indicative on my ignorance of the inner workings of the female mind. Forgive me if my reaction caused you offense, Dr. Hooper."

Molly frowned and pursed her lips. It was a strange feeling to be deeply and viscerally affected by the sound of his baritone voice yet also livid at his words. She couldn't even begin to deconstruct all the insult he had just heaped upon her shoulders and thusly all of womankind. Nurse Morstan's cheerful smile had certainly disappeared. Dr. Watson's hand struck his forehead with a whack.

Molly reached and snatched her photo from Mr. Holmes' hand. "Don't apologize. You are correct in that I should have behaved differently. I see now the appeal of the image in this photograph was entirely superficial. "

Her strength wavered. She tucked the picture back inside her correspondence and crumpled back down on the bed with the bundle clutched to her chest. Another fit of coughing assailed her small frame. She closed her eyes. Tears burned hot and leaked from their corners. There was an ache in her heart in addition to the pain of her inflamed lungs.

"Perhaps you should go, Mr. Holmes. I am very tired and I don't think there is much you can do for me," she whispered.

She heard the creaking of the wooden floorboards and then a shadow loomed. She looked up to see him towering above her.

"I would advise you not to stand so near me," she warned. "You do not want what I have."

"You are not ill with consumption," he muttered. "If I recognized that, so too should you."

She nodded. "Yes, I lied to and told him I had been around patients of the disease back in England. I felt I should return the favor for all his u-untruths. I had hoped the spectre of consumption would be enough to discourage him from whatever scheme he has planned. However, it matters not what drowns me at present. I-I am going to die all the same."

Mr. Holmes crouched to her level. "Yes, you are. I am sorry for that, Dr. Hooper."

Molly had no rejoinder. Her breath caught. It was devastating to hear someone else agree as if death stalked one step nearer.

"May I assist you anyways?" He asked in a low tone.

"Do you want to?" She sniffled. "Even though I am irrational and disproportionately sentimental?"

He smiled. "I cannot fault you for your nature."

Molly covered her mouth as she coughed. After a few wheezy breaths, she glowered at him from her pillow.

"Have you ever been slapped for your impudence, Mr. Holmes?"

His eyes constricted. "No."

"Would you like to be?"

Nurse Morstan barked a laugh and then giggled behind them. "God, I like her."

Mr. Holmes' eyes flitted sideways but he ignored the comment.

"Tell me your story, Dr. Hooper. How did you come to be in this predicament?"

As best she could, Molly relayed her tale even though it was painful to speak at times. She had first started corresponding with Mr. Tom Woodley after he had informed her that her Uncle Milton, a friend of his and one of the countless caught up in the Klondike gold fever, had died after a fall from his horse. She had formed a kinship with Tom through months of letter writing. She withheld the moment she fell in love with the man, however, as to not to additionally inflate Mr. Holmes' ego. Tom had written an ardent letter extolling her virtues and appealed to her vanity with profuse compliments in regards to her chosen profession. In that letter, he had included Mr. Holmes' picture and asked if she would consider marrying him.

Of course, the idea seemed mad at first but she was very lonely in England. Her mother had passed in childbirth and her father who had raised her, died five years previous. The modest inheritance she had received upon his death had enabled her to gain her medical degree but her career choice had only served to further her isolation. Few men seemed interested in marrying a headstrong, independent female who was an advocate for women's suffrage as if that was somehow incompatible with being a wife and mother. Why did she have to be one or the other?

"Why indeed?" Mr. Holmes replied.

Molly's eyes enlarged. She hadn't realized she had said that part aloud. "Are you m-mocking me?"

He squinted. "No. You are quite correct. There is no reason you could not do both. In fact, it makes sense to be an advocate for your rights if you have children. More protection for you as a mother would naturally extend to them."

And this from the man who had decried women's sentimentality! What an odd contradiction he was.

The door to the small room rattled then and burst open. The air around them swirled with disturbed dust and Molly coughed again.

"What are you all doing with my wife?"

Molly cringed at the sight of Tom Woodley. He was Sherlock Holmes' opposite in every way. He was much shorter, rotund, and he had a thick, unkempt mustache and beady brown eyes. He was also a lot older than he purported himself to be in his letters. He had claimed he was twenty-eight but she guessed he was closer to forty-five by the grey at his temples and the lines on his bulldog-like face.

Mr. Holmes drew himself up to his full height and stared down his nose at Tom. "Dr. Hooper claims she is not your wife."

Tom sneered. His thick lips curled distastefully. There was a look of uncertainty in his eyes, though, when he appraised Mr. Holmes. Molly observed a flicker of recognition cross his face.

"Oh, and you believe her? She's just a woman and a very sick one at that. She doesn't know what she's saying. She's practically delirious! She's my wife, alright, and I've come to take her from this place and see to it she gets proper care."

Nurse Morstan huffed. "This is the best place for her right now. She'll not last two days in your company."

Tom sniffed and then spit on the floor near her feet. "No one asked your opinion, witch."

John stepped forward. "Don't think you can disrespect these women in my presence, you toad."

"Pfft, big talk, little man."

Mr. Holmes raised his hands and swore.

"Enough squabbling. We have an issue to resolve," he shifted towards the man. "Let's see your proof of this union."

Tom dug into his pocket and produced the marriage certificate. Mr. Holmes perused it briefly before handing it back to the man.

"Mm, well, I think this matter is best dealt with at the magistrate's office."

Tom smiled smugly. "He's the one who signed this. I think you'll find I'm well within my rights to collect my property.

Mr. Holmes' jaw set at that remark. He looked towards Molly.

"Can I take your papers with me, Dr. Hooper? I may need them as evidence."

Tom glowered at her. "Yes, I'm tired of this resistance. You'll see. The magistrate will sympathize with me. You can't just throw me off 'cause I'm not as pretty as you'd like, Molly Woodley. You agreed to marry me. It's all right here in writing, darling."

Molly reluctantly handed her bundle of papers over to Mr. Holmes. He had her life in his hands but she had little alternative. She was too sick to put up a fight on her own. She pleaded with her eyes as best as she could.

"Please help me, Mr. Holmes. Do not let him take me away from here."

The large man's eyes darkened. "I won't."

* * *

Sherlock rode as fast as his gaseous steed would carry him towards the courthouse. Fortunately, he knew enough shortcuts that he managed to arrive there earlier than Tom Woodley. He stormed straight into his brother's chambers and slammed Molly's papers down on Mycroft's large wooden desk.

"Afternoon, brother dear," Mycroft muttered without looking up. "What brings you here?"

"A young woman."

Mycroft glanced up with a confused looked in his eyes. "A woman?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, a client. She's in trouble. A man is coming here who will show you a certificate of a marriage-by-proxy for the pair of them. She insists it is fraudulent. You must void this contract."

Mycroft stood up from behind his desk. He must have had a sitting that day as he was still garbed in his ceremonial robes, but fortunately, minus his wig. Sherlock could never take himseriously in that monstrosity.

"Who approved this long-distance marriage?" He pressed his fingers together under his nose.

"You did. Your signature is on the certificate."

Mycroft's brows shot up. "My signature? Hmm, I do not recall it. However, I sign off on many things in the course of my day. That makes things more difficult, Sherlock."

Sherlock rubbed his hand through his hair. He groaned in frustration.

"Hang your pride, Mycroft! It is nothing for you to invalidate the certificate. This woman does not want to be married to this man and I do not blame her. He is a con and a criminal if I've ever seen one."

Mycroft rounded his desk and then sat on its edge. "What of the lady? How do you know her story is genuine? How do you know she isn't trying to go back on a promise she regrets? Women can be quite fickle."

Sherlock knew he did not have a good answer for his questions. "She is telling me the truth. I just . . . know."

"Oh, you do, do you? You appear rather emotional about this business, brother mine. Have you considered your reasoning may be impaired?"

Sherlock exhaled a loud breath. "My reasoning is perfectly sound but regardless, so what if she has changed her mind? Grant her a divorce. It is legal, is it not?"

Mycroft scoffed. "Legal, but not simple, Sherlock. A person wishing to seek a divorce must place a 'notice of intent' which is essentially an advertisement, in the _Canada Gazette_ as well as two local newspapers for a period of no less than six months. Then the petition must be approved by parliament in order for the divorce to be legal. They can reject it for a variety of reasons and they do so often, especially when it is a woman who petitions as her reasons for divorce are not given equal measure. The few who manage to do this against the wishes of their husbands are usually of high social status and considerable means. I suspect your client falls into neither category."

Sherlock felt a frown set into his face. "What a ludicrous process. It ensures a person's enslavement. Aren't we supposed to be a free society?"

Mycroft nodded but there was a slight confusion in the crease of his brow. "Women aren't persons though, Sherlock, not in the eyes of the law."

Sherlock's spine stiffened. "Not persons? Are they not living, breathing beings with a mind of their own?"

"Yes, but so is your horse," Mycroft held his hands up when Sherlock's expression became thunderous. "Now, brother, I am just giving you an education in the realities of our society. I am an administrator of the law, not a law maker. If you want to help this- what is her name?"

"Dr. Molly Hooper."

Mycroft's brow raised. "Hmm. In any event, if you want to help this Dr. Molly Hooper, you must find some other way within the law."

Sherlock shook his head as a thought skipped through his mind. "Her given name is Margaret, actually."

Then the same thought coalesced and came to a gravel-spewing stop inside his mind. Margaret! Not Molly.

"Yes!" He exclaimed. "Yes, that's it! I know exactly what to do."


	4. Chapter 4

Dusk darkened the sky outside Molly's small hospital room. Every breath she took seemed more difficult than the last. A person could recover from this type of illness, but even she knew the amount fluid in her lungs indicated it had taken a deadly turn and her chances were slim. She wondered if she would see the dawn the next day. Hours had passed since she had been introduced to Sherlock Holmes and another night approached. Would he return that evening or at all, for that matter?

A fit of coughing erupted again. She sounded like an old coal miner.

A loud snort from the corner of the room caught her attention. She looked over at Dr. Watson who had fallen asleep while on guard and presently snored. He styled himself in a similar fashion to most of the gentlemen she had seen in this small city. He wore a modest brown ensemble in some heavy wool material. A brown derby hat rested on his lap. He had relatively short hair combed to one side and a thick mustache. However, for all his outward conformance, he was unusually compassionate. In fact, even the abrasive Mr. Holmes in his fearsome dress must be a man of some higher moral compunction to assist her, a penniless stranger. She was fortunate to have met the pair of them.

She lifted her head as loud voices, including the unmistakable baritone of Sherlock Holmes, and the heavy trod of boots sounded in the outside corridor. Dr. Watson startled awake.

"Oh, oomph, my apologies, Dr. Hooper," he said quickly. "I did not mean to sleep."

"It is quite alright, Doctor. I believe the commotion heralds the return of your friend."

He smiled. "Yes, commotion. That is a good word for what precedes him."

Seconds later, the door pushed open and Mr. Holmes strode in followed immediately by another tall man with a haughty face. There was something in his air as he tapped an umbrella with an ornately carved handle along the wide wooden floor boards. Behind him was the portly Father Henry in his black robes who Molly had met once briefly when he'd visited to attend to her "spiritual needs." She hadn't seen him since she'd shocked him with her proclamation that she did not believe in God (which was a little extreme as she counted herself as agnostic as opposed to an outright atheist). To her surprise, a fourth man brought up the rear with Nurse Morstan in tow. This fellow wore an open stub collared, dark blue uniform with large brass buttons down the front. He removed a rounded hat that appeared to be a cross between a cap and a helmet. A man of the law, no doubt, but not an intimidating one. His smile was quite pleasant.

Molly struggled into a sitting position. Her face was warm, but not from the effort to rise. She felt mortified dressed in only a nightdress in the presence of such grand men.

"Dr. Hooper," Mr. Holmes began. "May I introduce you to my brother who is the local Magistrate; the- ahem, _honorable_ , Sir Mycroft Holmes. This is Chief Constable Gregory Lestrade. You may know Father Henry already."

Molly dipped her head. "I am honored to make your acquaintances. I beg your forgiveness for my current state."

"Miss Hooper-"

"Dr. Hooper," The younger Holmes snipped.

Mycroft glowered at his sibling. Molly surmised he was several years older and closer to forty than thirty. He too had an intensity in his grey-blue eyes, but his was much colder and more analytical. He did not seem to need to reign in his emotions in the same manner. He was not as handsome as Sherlock, but made up for it with extra height and a quiet confidence.

"My brother has explained your situation. I have also had met with Mr. Woodley."

Molly looked anxiously at the door. Was he going to come barrelling through there at any moment?

"Calm yourself, Dr. Hooper," Mycroft Holmes drawled. "The local police force has decided to hold him for a period of twenty-four hours at my request on account he might pose a danger to himself. I decided that he has been quite mistaken in his pursuit of you as his wife which upset him greatly. The document he possesses indicates he has married a Miss Molly Hooper. I believe your given name is, in fact, Margaret Hooper."

Molly opened her mouth but he held up his hand. "Don't disagree, Dr. Hooper. Just nod."

So Molly nodded.

"Furthermore," he continued. "My brother ascertains that he, not Mr. Woodley, has been the person corresponding with you all these months. He sent you photograph of himself during your exchange, did he not?"

Molly stared wide-eyed at the two of them.

"I require you only to nod again in the presence of these witnesses."

She slowly bobbed her head up and down. She had no idea what was happening.

"Excellent. Well, then, since you two are betrothed, I see no reason why we cannot go ahead and make it official-"

Her mouth fell open. "Wh-what?"

"What?" John echoed from the back of the pack.

Sherlock stepped forwards. "Excuse me, Mycroft. This is, erm, not exactly what my fiancé had envisioned for our union. Please, may I have a moment alone with my intended?"

"But of course," Mycroft looked at the others. "Let us leave these two for a spell, shall we?"

John pushed forward. "B-but . . ."

"John, if you would please!" Sherlock snapped at Dr. Watson.

Nurse Morstan tucked his arm in hers and pulled the stunned doctor out to the corridor. Mycroft, police constable Lestrade, and the Father trailed after them. Molly blinked several times as the door closed behind the group. She turned her stunned gaze back to the younger Holmes as he sat by her feet on her narrow bed.

She shook her head. "Wh-What is all this betrothal and intended nonsense?"

He stretched his neck. His cheek flinched and then his lips separated before he spoke.

"I am sorry to surprise you with all this, Dr. Hooper. I will attempt to explain. You see, there is an inconsistency we can exploit in your by-proxy marriage to Mr. Woodley. He used your nickname rather than your true given name on the marriage certificate. However, he is in possession of some of your letters including one where you appear to consent to becoming his wife. He also told Mycroft that he sent you the certificate which you signed and returned."

Molly's spine went rigid. "That is a lie!"

Mr. Holmes held up a hand. "I believe you. There were some minor discrepancies in your the signature on the certificate when compared to those on your letters. However, my brother was reluctant to invalidate the marriage based on these small technicalities as he thought that Mr. Woodley might be able to convince someone higher up of the legality of your union. He felt there needed to be a more compelling reason to disregard a document he himself signed."

Molly heaved in a breath. She was still very confused. Her throat tickled and she coughed.

"B-But we're not engaged," she sputtered between hacks. "That's a fabrication . . ."

"Yes, of course it is," he rolled his eyes. "However, it is a necessary lie. See, I am certain you are still at risk of abduction by Mr. Woodley. I wanted to take you under my protection at my residence to prevent such an occurrence but my brother refused to let me do so. He thinks it would malign my reputation and thus his own. He would not allow us to live under the same roof as a single female and bachelor male, understand?"

She swallowed and nodded weakly as pained lanced her sides. Muscles deep in her abdomen hurt from coughing so frequently.

"So," he continued. "I suggested the way to remedy the aforementioned problem was for us to marry. As your husband, my claim over you is stronger than Mr. Woodley's because a marriage by a priest in the presence of witnesses trumps a by-proxy marriage any day."

Molly's eyes stung. She had not blinked for an extended period.

"M-Marry? The solution is for us to _actually_ marry? Tonight?"

Suddenly the attendance of Father Henry made gobsmacking sense.

He narrowed his eyes and turned his head slightly. "Erm, yes. That won't be a problem for you, will it? You are going to expire from your illness in about, oh, three days? Two, maybe? Would you not like this protection until then?"

She frowned. "But . . . I don't understand . . . why would you want to marry me?"

He shrugged. "It is not permanent and little inconvenience. Besides, I have heard it is best to get the first marriage over with and out of the way."

Molly shook her head. She failed to see the humor as he smirked. It had all come at her so quickly that she had just barely begun to process the implications.

"What if I do not d-die? What if I recover?"

Even as she said that, she strained to get out each word. Every muscle in her body felt stiff as if rigor mortis was already setting in. He tilted his head. He pursed his lips as he appeared to search his mind. Apparently, he had not considered that possibility. His eyes narrowed in thought.

"Then we will get an annulment. Yes . . . an annulment. It is not like I have any interest in ever consummating our union. If an annulment is not possible, I will petition for a divorce. You can be assured that I have no designs on keeping you."

Her eyes strained from looking out underneath scrunched brows. "How incredibly r-romantic this all sounds, Mr. Holmes."

"Romantic?" He laughed, his voice high. "My dear woman, the last thing this proposal should be considered is romantic."

Molly's chest jerked with another set of coughs. She closed her eyes for a spell. She was so very tired.

"So, is that what this is? My proposal?"

The corner of his lip twitched. "Mm, that depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you will accept. Obviously I can't force you to marry me and I really have no wish to do so. My recommendation for this course of action is entirely for your benefit. I am not a man with a lot of redeeming qualities, Dr. Hooper, but I find myself wanting to help you so perhaps I am not completely a lost cause as Mycroft often laments."

Molly searched his beautiful face. He was ethereal in the waning light, an avenging angel of the old Testament. Never had she imagined herself married to someone so breathtaking nor envisioned a man of his stature offering her his name but he could be hers for the rest of her brief life. She suppressed a manic laugh. His mad reasoning was beginning to hold sway.

"Mr. Holmes, you are too generous," she sighed. "However, I am also too exhausted to see any flaws in your logic. I will accept you of course and you will have my eternal gratitude. I only ask one small additional favor."

His eyes had sparked a bit then and an energy seemed to pulse beneath his skin. "Yes?"

Her face flushed. "As this will be the first and last time I am ever married. Will you . . . w-will you, I mean, properly . . .um . . . "

He blinked a couple of times as his face took on a frown. Then his eyes flashed and rounded.

"You would like a traditional proposal," he said dryly.

Her face flamed. She covered it with her hands expecting him to balk but then, the bed jostled as he moved off. When she peaked between her digits, she saw that he was lowering himself into a kneeling position.

"Dr. Hooper-"

"Oh, w-wait," she threw back the covers and slipped out of the bed.

* * *

Sherlock watched as the little doctor steadied herself on her feet. His breath caught as his gaze travelled over her slight form. The simple hospital gown she wore fell only to mid-calf so he was awarded with the sight of her slender legs from there down to her bare feet which were curiously appealing. He frowned at her dainty toes. Each one was a tiny work of anatomical perfection. His view rose and he knew he would never be able to rid himself of this set of images. They would play forever in his mind like one of those new moving picture reels. She was much too slim but he could see the outline of her rounded hips and narrow waist, the dip of her navel and the modest swell of two breasts including the points of her nipples beneath the thin cotton fabric.

Finally, he managed to look up at her face which had been foremost in his mind the last few hours. John had called her pretty but the term seemed inadequate. Pretty was a word with no depth and did a grave injustice to the character that he knew lied beneath. If Dr. Margaret Hooper was pretty, then the artwork on the Sistine Chapel's ceiling was quaint.

She stared down at him with her lips pressed together; still wary, he supposed, and why wouldn't she be? Her experience with marriage had thus far been disappointment.

"Dr. Hooper," he tried a second time as he took her hand.

"Please, call me Molly," she said softly, her fingers trembling.

"Molly," he repeated, his tongue lingered over the roll of the 'L'. "As we have not known each other but for a few sparse minutes over the course of this day, I cannot offer you any flowery compliments that would be sincere. I can, however, promise you that your protection will be my first priority and I will keep you in comfort as long as you shall live. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

For a moment, she was silent and he experienced some panic. He inhaled unsteadily and tried not to frown. He knew nothing of this woman and did not know why it bothered him so that she might refuse. Then, to his relief, she squeezed his hand and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Of course, yes, Mr. Holmes. It would be my pleasure."

He kissed her hand then. He blamed the sudden rush of triumph as symptomatic of having thwarted a bad man. He refused to attribute it to the gratifying sound of her acceptance.

His eyes met hers once more. "If I am to call you Molly then you must refer to me as Sherlock."

She cast her eyes down shyly. "Even as your spouse, wouldn't it be proper to call you Mr. Holmes?"

His nose wrinkled. "Perhaps, but I do not prefer it. I am not the only Mr. Holmes in these parts. As my wife, I would have you address me, and only me."

Her eyes went a bit large. "O-Oh. Well, if that is what you wish."

He heaved several breaths. "It is."

He would never be able to explain this moment, he knew, but he was gripped with a sort of frenetic lunacy. His heart rate increased. The sounds in the room became deafening. He could hear every pained breath she took into her clogged chest like she was breathing directly into his ear.

"Say it, please, my name," he ground out.

Her lips parted in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Would you accept my offer again," he intoned between ragged breaths, "but use my Christian name instead?"

Her eyelids fluttered and then she licked her lips. He focussed intently as she spoke.

"Um, yes," she stuttered. "I-I will marry you, . . . Sherlock."

An odd tremor rippled through his frame. He looked down for a second then lumbered to his feet. The room was almost completely dark. Her pale face was waxen. He chided himself for keeping her on her feet for so long.

"You should lie back down," he said gruffly. "This will take but a few minutes more. I do not want you to strain yourself."

She shook her head even as she leaned heavily on her cot. "I will stand for my marriage, thank-you."

He assessed her inadequate garb. "Then you will need to be covered."

Sherlock whipped off his jacket and settled it over her shoulders. Then, for good measure, he fastened a few buttons. When satisfied her modesty was preserved, he opened the door and ushered the others back inside.

"We are ready," he announced. "Let us be married."

* * *

Molly stood the entire ceremony but could not prevent herself from coughing through most of it. Her throat had been irritated from so much conversation and it had renewed her insatiable need to expel her sickness. Everyone stood well out of the way, save for Sherlock, Dr. Watson and Nurse Morstan. The pair of them acted as impromptu best man and maid of honor.

In short order, the ceremony was complete. Dr. Watson and Chief Constable Lestrade bore witness to their signatures on the marriage certificate. Mycroft Holmes stamped his approval and it was done. They were married. There was no congratulations. Everyone filed solemnly from the room afterwards as if they had just paid their respects at a wake.

"I must speak to my brother a moment," Sherlock informed her.

She dipped her head and climbed back into the narrow bed still enveloped by his coat. The two Holmes' stepped outside the room but failed to completely close the door. Several terse words that she could not quite make out were exchanged. She curled up and sunk farther into the great jacket. She hoped she had not inadvertently damaged their relationship.

A minute later, Sherlock returned. The room was almost completely dark then, except for the barest light from a few electric street lamps.

"What now?" She asked.

His brow furrowed. He wasted no time in bending down, and scooping her into his arms.

"Now we go home, Mrs. Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

John removed his hat as he stepped into 221 Ash Street. The mournful strains of Sherlock's violin drifted to his ears from the upper floor. A tremor vibrated his hands as he recognized Élégie by the composer Gabriel Faure, a song that Sherlock usually played when he was in a melancholy mood. John's stomach heaved and plummetted as a thought struck him. Had Molly died while he was doing his rounds?

He drew in a steadying breath, stepped out of his shoes and hung up his overcoat. He thought about springing up the stairs but paused a moment, tapping his fingers on the carved wooden balustrade where it curved back on itself in an ornate loop. The events of the previous day tumbled through his mind. Never would he have imagined his understanding of his friend's inner workings would be so completely upended in such a short time frame. The result being that Sherlock Holmes was a bit of a mystery to him. It made John feel off balance. Who would he meet at the top of the stairs, he wondered? He was anxious to encounter this new version of Sherlock if he'd suffered the death of his tiny, new wife.

"Oh, hello, Dr. Watson, I didn't hear you come in," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

He turned to greet her. "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson."

"Are you finished for the day?"

"I am," he cleared his throat. "D-Do I want to ascend these stairs?"

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and sighed. "Oh, I cannot say. He's in a frightful mood and that music, it's positively grim."

John scratched his brow. "I-Is he playing it for any particular reason? I mean, is . . . ahem . . . Mrs. Holmes well?"

She shook her head. "No, unfortunately not. The poor little thing is hanging on, bless her, but she's in a rather poor state. Thankfully, she's sleeping at present. Apparently, his playing helps her rest but Lord, I could use some respite. He's not let up for hours."

John sighed. "You'll have to forgive him, Mrs. Hudson. I do not have the foggiest idea if he knows what to do with himself."

She nodded. "Have you ever seen anything like it? I honestly don't know what to make of his behavior. You would think if he had been corresponding with this girl all these months and planning to marry her, he might have let me know so I could make proper arrangements."

John looked sideways with a frown. He wasn't quite sure why Sherlock would repeat the lie about his relationship with Molly to Mrs. Hudson but he wasn't about to correct it. Sherlock probably had his reasons.

"Hmm, well, um, perhaps he was not certain if she would make the trip."

Mrs. Hudson's lips drooped. "What a shame for her to come all this way to meet him only to fall ill. Will he be very heartbroken if she dies, Dr. Watson?"

"I honestly do not know, Mrs. Hudson," he murmured. "I should go and see if there is something I can do now that I've returned."

He observed a look of guilt steal across her face.

"Is there anything additional I should be made aware of?"

She wrung her hands. "You may notice some tea on her bedside table. It might be slightly, um, malodorous."

John frowned in confusion. "Smelly tea?"

"Yes, and garlic paste."

"I see," he wrinkled his nose. "Is that all?"

"There is also a bit of liqueur," she smiled in reassurance. "That one actually smells pleasant, like cinnamon!"

John exhaled noisily. "I gather these are all remedies of some sort. I hope you haven't overpaid for Mrs. Chan's questionable ancient Chinese medicines. Did Sherlock tell you about Redbeard's reaction to her dried beets?"

"No, why?"

John's lip twitched. "Um, never mind. Mrs. Hudson, I do wish you would have consulted me before you administered anything to my patient. You could do more harm than good."

She lifted her chin. "Better to try something than to just give up on the girl as you two have done. Hmph, that's how you men seem to view us poor womenfolk, am I correct? As weak? Well, my dear boy, I have seen women recover from sickness and injury that would lay a man half their age and twice their size low for the rest of his life. Our girl does not need sheltering and sad music. She needs someone to believe in her and nurture what life she has left."

John felt heat creep into his cheeks. "I have not given up, but there is no treatment for what ails her. It will be but for the grace of God if she survives."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes rounded. "God? Well, we'll see about that. You go pray for her and I will continue with my treatments."

John opened his mouth to protest but was dismissed with a wave of the hand.

"Go," She commanded. "I have a warm compress to prepare."

John watched her stalk away with a shake of his head then looked back up the stairs. Guilt flooded his belly. Mrs. Hudson was not entirely wrong. He had resigned himself to expecting Molly's death as if it were forgone. He really should know better. He took a deep breath, gathered his courage and made his way to the second floor. The music waned as he climbed and ceased altogether just before he looked down the hall towards the spare room. His eyes fell on Sherlock who leaned against the door jam, facing the room's interior. The large man still wore his dressing gown, his hair was in disarray and his shoulders slumped. At his side, his arm hung heavily with the burden of his violin.

"Sherlock?" He probed gently.

Sherlock half-turned his head and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"John," he dipped his head.

John padded beside him and looked into the room towards the bed. The thick, velvet curtains had been drawn closed so it was very dim inside, but he could make out a small form buried beneath several blankets.

"How is she?" He asked.

"Worse," Sherlock's voice was flat.

"Worse?"

He backed out of the room and pulled the door closed.

"She had more trouble breathing today," his voice was strangely disembodied. "Her inhalations were quite labored. At one point, she coughed herself into unconsciousness. It appeared to be . . . very painful."

Sherlock did not look at John but kept his eyes downcast. He raised his violin and began fiddling with the tension on the pegs.

"I am sorry to hear that, Sherlock," John responded softly. "I hope you are minimizing your contact with her, though. You are in real danger of contracting her sickness."

Sherlock finally looked up with enlarged eyes. He blinked several times as if he had just awoke.

"Don't concern yourself with my health, John. I will be fine. Also, I am in no need of your sympathies. Her s-s-suffering is not a surprise. This is how illnesses such as these progress. We all knew this is what would happen."

"Indeed," John agreed, "but just because something is expected, it does not mean we are not affected."

Sherlock squinted and wagged his head. "I am not affected."

John raised his brow as Sherlock brushed past. "No?"

"Of course not," he muttered.

John skipped after him. "Sherlock, it is nothing to be ashamed of if you are experiencing some distress. You do seem to have an emotional connection to Dr. Hooper-"

"Dr. Holmes is her name now, John," he spun around and rolled his eyes, "and please, I am not distressed nor am I emotional and furthermore, I do not know where you get this idea of a connection."

John wanted to pull out his own hair as he shifted back and forth on his feet. He could barely contain himself.

"No connection? Three hours after you met Dr. Hoo- I mean, Dr. Holmes, you married her. I wouldn't have done that for a stranger "

Sherlock's cheek flinched as his eyes narrowed. "It was the only way to thwart the dastardly Mr. Woodley."

"I think not," John exclaimed. "Mrs. Hudson could have taken her under her wing easily enough."

Sherlock huffed. "Mycroft would not allow it."

John crossed his arms. "Since when have you ever cowed to your brother?"

Sherlock stood there a moment with a distant expression on his face. Then he stared down his nose, stretched his neck and jerked the lapels of his dressing gown.

"Obviously, the intricacies of this are beyond your grasp," he stated.

"Obviously," John muttered.

Sherlock turned to continue towards his room when he stopped suddenly. "What time is it?"

"It is just past six o'clock."

His eyes flashed. "Damn! I lost track of time. John, can you convey a message to Wiggins at the coach house? I need my Bergmann loaded and brought up here as soon as possible."

"Your Bergmann?"

"Yes, I know it is fiddly but it holds ten rounds. My revolver only holds six. Is your rifle in good working order? When was the last time you had it cleaned? You might have need of it."

John sighed. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why are we arming ourselves?" He repeated loudly.

Sherlock exhaled noisily. "Tom Woodley will be released from his twenty-four hour hold at six-thirty. He will most likely come directly here to confront me. Really, John, must I explain everything?"

"This is ludicrous. There couldn't have been an easier way!"

However, it was left to John all the same to secure the premises while Sherlock dressed. Sherlock must have appraised Wiggins of the situation earlier in the day because he had cleaned, tested and loaded every gun they possessed between the four of them (including Mrs. Hudson's small calibre Smith and Wesson pistol).

"I did my best to lubricate the bolt mechanism, Dr. Watson, but it still sticks. You'll have to be careful with it."

"Thank-you, Wiggins."

"Did Mr. Holmes say he needed me at the main house?"

"No, and it's probably best you keep watch back here just in case."

"Ah, yeah, I'm on it."

Seven o'clock came and went with no sign of Tom Woodley and then one hour stretched into the next. John sat with Sherlock in the parlour, sipping tepid tea when Mrs. Hudson's grandfather clock chimed the twentieth hour.

"Do you think he's still coming?" John asked after the ringing of the final chime died down.

"Most assuredly," Sherlock mumbled, his fingers folded together and propping up his chin.

"Even so?"

"Yes, John, he isn't just some lovelorn fool. Molly is the key to something. He needs control of her to access it."

"What are you thinking?"

Sherlock's brows twitched. "Money, what else? She has most likely come into an inheritance. Women don't retain their rights in Canada when they are married. Their husbands automatically become the lawful owners of any property or assets."

Of course, it all made sense.

"Hmm, that's funny," John smirked.

"Oh?"

"Yes, think about it, Sherlock. You are her husband now. If she is some sort of heiress, you could be rich."

"I care not for her riches, if she has any. I have more than enough," he replied. "I have no need of anything of hers."

A pounding rattled the front door, shaking the walls of the house. Sherlock's head rose quickly and he stood up. He picked his gun up from the side table near his chair.

"Ready, John? I believe Tom Woodley has arrived. Let us pray he does something very foolish."

John raised his brows. "Why?"

Sherlock smiled through his teeth. "So I can kill him."


	6. Chapter 6

"Mr. Holmes!"

The front door shook on its hinges again but Sherlock recognized the muffled voice as someone other than Mr. Woodley. He threw it open with an exasperated huff.

"Constable Lestrade," he muttered to the man standing on the dimly lit porch. "Make this quick, I am expecting someone and you are the last person I want present when he arrives."

Sherlock glanced past him to the contingent of officers sitting astride their agitated mounts outside the garden gate. The horses appeared jittery, their enlarged eyes glinted with the dull yellow light cast from a nearby electric street lamp. One of them pawed the dirt and jerked its head as the officer atop its back tried to steady the beast. John popped up beside Sherlock with his rifle still clutched in his white-knuckle grasp.

"What's all this?" He asked.

"Evening, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes," Lestrade removed his cap and ran a hand over his short, grey hair. "We require your immediate assistance. We have made an unsettling discovery which has us quite baffled. Your investigative skills are needed. "

"Are you hard of hearing, man?" Sherlock bit out. "I said I was expecting someone. Besides, I am disinclined to leave my residence at present."

Constable Lestrade glanced at the pistol in Sherlock's hand then to the rifle in John's. "I see. Is the visitor you're expecting Tom Woodley?"

Sherlock glowered down at the officer without answering. John's mouth rounded into an 'O' and he quickly tucked his rifle behind his back. Lestrade sighed.

"I should probably inform you that your brother, I mean, Magistrate Holmes had us escort Mr. Woodley to the city limits and warn him off coming back around these parts," he explained. "I don't think he will be bothering you tonight or any time in the near future. He seemed quite resigned to leaving New Westminster."

Sherlock's lips turned down upon hearing this turn of events. "Did he?"

Lestrade nodded. "That's not to say he wasn't extremely irate, Mr. Holmes, but I think he knows he's beaten."

Sherlock flipped open his suit jacket and jammed his pistol into a holster at his side. "Somehow, I doubt that. What is this discovery that has you confounded? You will have to be more explicit. Your police force seems baffled by a great many things . . . and often."

Lestrade replaced his cap and straightened his back. "Hmph, we do our best, Mr. Holmes. There are only seven of us for this whole territory all the way out to Hope, after all. What's come to us is truly mystifying. None of us have ever seen anything like it."

Sherlock looked over at John with a humorless smile. "Imagine that."

John returned a frown of disapproval and mouthed the word, 'behave'. "Why don't you come inside and give us some more details, Constable? Mrs. Hudson can make us some tea."

Lestrade dipped his head. "My thanks, but my men are anxious to go home for the evening. We would like to deal with this as soon as possible."

Sherlock turned and gazed up the stairs towards the second floor. He felt certain that whatever Lestrade was going to show him meant that he had a long night ahead of him. Not wanting to let any more warm air out, he nudged John onto the porch with him and closed the door.

"Well, out with it, Lestrade," he grumbled.

The officer swallowed. "A dead body washed up on Poplar Island a couple of hours ago. One of the Musqueum fishermen found it and brought it back to our shores."

Sherlock sucked in a breath and squinted as he made a few deductions. Details drifted into his mind's eye like falling leaves.

"This person was a white man," Sherlock surmised. "Naked, or nearly naked. He did not drown. He has unusual injuries but not they do not definitively indicate he was murdered. Though, you suspect foul play, all the same."

Lestrade's mouth fell open.

John scoffed. "How do you know such things? How do you always know?"

Sherlock's brow drew together. "It's obvious, John. The natives would not have contacted the police for one of their own. They would have dealt with it themselves, even if he was from a different tribe. If the man was wearing any kind of identifiable clothing, Lestrade here would have some clue who he was or at least, in this timeframe, still be attempting to figure out his identity. The same reasoning applies for his cause of death. If it were just an obvious accidental death, again, I do not think the police would rush up here to consult with me."

Lestrade nodded vigorously. "Of course, you are correct, Mr. Holmes, except for one small detail."

Sherlock exhausted a stream of exasperation. "What is it?"

"It's a woman."

John leaned over and slapped his leg with a laugh. Then he caught himself and offered an apologetic look.

"So sorry, it's not funny. There always something, though."

Lestrade looked back to Sherlock. "Would you come, take a look and give us some idea where to start?"

Sherlock's spine stiffened. "Despite your assurances about Mr. Woodley departing New Westminster, I still do not feel comfortable leaving my new wife alone here with only Mrs. Hudson and my groom as her guards."

Lestrade chuckled and grinned.

"Mrs. Hudson is one of the original frontierswomen in these parts and a crack shot, Mr. Holmes," he stepped forward, dipped his head and dropped his voice an octave. "I'd take her over half my recruits on most days. Tell you what, how about I leave two of my men here? They'll keep watch until you return. One hour, that's all I ask."

Sherlock hesitated. He was about to decline, despite the pull of the mystery, until John cleared his throat.

"You'll only go insane here, Sherlock. You know I'm right. It would not hurt for you to leave this residence for a little while."

Lestrade twitched his brows and pressed his agenda.

"Come, Mr. Holmes, I stood up for you as a witness even though I am quite certain your marriage is not all it appears to be. For once, you are in my debt but I promise this will interest you, regardless. You'll want to take a gander at our corpse," he coaxed. "She's missing most of her skin."

* * *

Molly awoke to a pair of hands urging her into a sitting position.

"Time to sit up dear."

She groaned. Mrs. Hudson's gentle, yet firm voice with its distant English accent had returned to torment her. Molly's eyes fluttered open.

"The music has stopped," she said hoarsely.

The dim light from the bedside lamp softly illuminated her caretaker's face. For an instant, Molly could see the stunning young woman she must have been in her youth.

"Thank God for that," Mrs. Hudson mumbled.

Molly's laugh turned into a hacking cough. "I-I liked it."

The older woman smirked. "Really? It put you to sleep."

She gazed imploringly at Mrs. Hudson. Sleep was all she wanted at that moment. Her limbs felt like limp carrots from the larder. Her heart seemed to thud in her chest like a shuffling drunkard. Her neck, shoulders and back ached. Slumber was heaven and every time she was dragged back to consciousness, it felt more and more like returning to hell.

"Why won't you let me sleep? It was lovely . . . lovely . . ."

"No, I'll not have you sleep more than a few hours at a time, my dear. Also, you are no longer allowed to lie on your back."

Molly coughed. Her throat felt raw.

"Y-You are positively e-evil Mrs. Hudson."

The older woman snorted. "My sweet child, you don't know the half of it. Now, I've made you some more mullein tea but I pinched some mint from the garden and added a touch of honey so it should taste a bit better. I also want you to have another teaspoon of this Chinese root liqueur. I can't for the life of me pronounce what's in there but Mrs. Chan swears it's a miracle cure."

Molly nodded weakly. As a trained doctor, she didn't put much stock in Mrs. Hudson's concoctions but she had no desire to argue.

"C-Can I skip the garlic?"

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. "I suppose, but just this time."

Molly sat up as best as she could and sipped her tea. The tingling sensation at the back of her throat and the tang of the peppermint in her nostrils was actually a welcome relief. While she drank, she strained to pick up on any other activity in the house as it was very quiet.

"Where is Mr. Holmes?" She rasped.

"The local police needed some help, dear. He's off on one of his cases. Something ghastly, no doubt. It had to be to draw him away from you."

Heat crept into her cheeks. "I imagine he would rather be doing anything else than tending to my sickly self."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "No, not at all. I've never seen him so smitten. You know, I had no idea about you, Molly. He never said a word, but then, he is a very different sort of man. I'm quite ashamed of myself for being so clueless all these months. I cannot believe I didn't pick up on at least a few signs that he had fallen in love. "

Molly looked away as fire licked through her cheeks. "Erm, well, I doubt very much he loves me. We have only just met."

"But you've been writing!" A silly smile spread across her face. "Oh, I have so many questions. Was he very romantic? I bet he was. Underneath all his pomp beats a very passionate heart. How did you two connect in the first place? Did he place an ad? Did you?"

Molly's head reeled. She let the ever-present tickle in her throat overwhelm her and began coughing loudly again. She did not want to lie to Mrs. Hudson, not when the kind woman was trying so very hard to get her through another night.

"F-Forgive m-me, it hurts to speak," she whispered.

Mrs. Hudson frowned and stroked her hair back from her face. "Yes, yes, of course. I'm going to get you a few more pillows so you can sleep upright."

Her caretaker flitted off and left her alone to finish her tea, which she tried her best to do. When Mrs. Hudson returned with an armful of pillows, Molly's eyes stung with tears. One of them escaped her lids and rolled down her cheek.

"Child, what is it? Are you in pain?"

Molly wiped away tears as the older woman stuffed pillows behind her and urged her to recline backwards.

"N-No, I am very good, for the circumstances. I just . . ."

"What is it?"

Molly swallowed. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I truly, truly am so very glad I met you. M-My mother died giving birth to me. I have never known what it's like to have her comfort me. S-So, I want to thank you for this, all of this, because now I can envision what it would have been like to have a mother. I am happy I was able to experience it once in my life."

Mrs. Hudson face went very pale. She covered her mouth for a moment as her eyes took on a sheen. Then, her hand dropped and she tilted her chin up defiantly.

"Now, you listen to me, you daft girl. I'll not have you saying your goodbyes to me. I will get you through this night, you understand, and then every night afterwards until you are better. That I promise you."

Molly bobbed her chin up and down feebly. She wished she could just say her goodbyes because as much as she wanted to believe the determined matriarch, this felt like the night. She suppressed a hiccup that threatened to turn into a sob. Mrs. Hudson took the tea cup from her hand and she slumped back against the pillows. The few minutes Molly had spent awake sapped her energy. She closed her eyes.

At least she was warm, safe and married. It was not the marriage she had dreamed about, but it meant someone cared. A long, shuddering breath left her lungs, trailing into a deep, chest heaving cough. Her lids felt too heavy to open. Another set of tears squeezed out and blazed a path down her face. Darkness was coming for her, a flat blackness enveloped the vision behind her lids. Mrs. Hudson voice faded away as she hummed a tune. A face flashed before Molly's internal gaze; one with beautiful angles and a penetrating gaze. Her shadowy angel. She wished she could see him one last time.

* * *

"John? Your opinion, please."

John flipped the sheet back over the body on the wooden cart. Something for which Sherlock was relieved. He was having difficulty not superimposing Molly's face over that of the small, dead woman. He retrieved his pocket watch and checked the time. Every minute dragged.

"Burns" John said simply. "Though, her time in the water has made it difficult to determine whether they were from a fire or by other means."

Sherlock nodded. "I concur. The skin is missing because it sloughed off. She has only been in the river about a day given the lack of bloating. As any chemicals that can do this type of damage are very rare, the balance of probabilities dictates the burns were caused by a fire."

"So . . ."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Constable Lestrade. "You are looking for a blaze upriver, Constable."

Numbers cascaded through Sherlock's mind.

"Given the timeframe, the average speed of the river and other factors, I would say she travelled no more than fifty-five miles from where she went in."

Lestrade scratched his head. "I haven't heard of any fires but I'll start making enquiries tomorrow. How do you think she got into the Fraser?"

Sherlock approached the body on the cart again. He drew in a breath and flipped the sheet back to expose her legs and feet which were the only areas where burns had not occurred. Instead, scratches, like those one suffers when exposed to brambles, marred her shins. His breath caught unexpectedly as he envisioned the last, desperate moments of her life.

"She put herself in the river."

* * *

Once John was finished with his notes. The pair of them rode hard back towards Ash Street. The entire process had taken longer than Sherlock had wanted, almost two hours. His heart beat loudly in his ears as they thundered home, the beat of it matching his mount's hooves against the compacted dirt roadways.

When they arrived and Sherlock stepped into the parlor to see Mrs. Hudson with her head in her hands, his heart nearly gave out.

"T-Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me quickly."

Mrs. Hudson dabbed her eyes. "I have tried so hard. Lord, I have tried but I could not wake her this last time. I fear she is slipping from my grasp."

Air caught in Sherlock's chest burned. He looked to John.

"Wh-What do I do?"

John's face contorted in a mask of sadness. "Just . . . go be with her, my friend."


	7. Chapter 7

_"You are not permitted to die."_

Molly resisted opening her eyes as her lovely dream retreated from her consciousness like a shadow bowing into the night. She'd had the same vision every morning for the last week. She turned over and groaned into her pillow. It always started the same. The deep rumble of a baritone voice vibrated through her body like the tremor of a passing locomotive. The soothing intonation would start out reassuring. Then an angry undercurrent transformed it into a gravelly rasp and its pitch would drop. Even so, she never felt threatened in her dream. Rather, the voice was full of frustrated expectation and she felt compelled to heed its command. Which she did.

 _"You are not permitted to die."_

She bit her lip, suddenly feeling very vacant in a way she didn't know how to remedy. The unique tone and inflections that constituted her fantasies made parts of her anatomy come alive in a shocking way. Heady sensations had her blushing even when she was alone.

The voice in her dreams belonged to her new husband, Sherlock Holmes. Her husband! She still could not believe she was married to that beautiful man.

She threw off her covers and sat up. Her entire body was feverish but not because she was sick. In fact, she was well on her way to a complete recovery. Somehow, she'd managed to live through the worst of it and her cough was almost gone. However, she occasionally felt weak and thus far, had not been allowed to do much more than lie in her bed as Mrs. Hudson tended to her needs.

Molly touched her feet to the floor and then stood up to test her balance. She tucked in her lips as she surveyed her room in the dim morning light. She loved the whimsical pattern of the honeycomb interspersed with bees on the wall paper and the green and yellow checkered drapes. The furniture was simple, an oak writing desk and chair in a missionary style sat under the room's lone window. A large cedar wardrobe dominated the far corner. All in all, it was a very well-appointed room but she was desperate for a change of scenery.

She padded to the wardrobe to retrieve the dressing gown she had been given to wear. Before she put it on, she held it to her face and inhaled deeply. It smelled faintly of cedar and what she could only imagine was Sherlock himself. Her tummy quivered as she slipped it on over her nightdress. The garment was much too large and she had to roll up the sleeves and fold it at the waist so the ends would not drag as she walked.

As quietly as she could, she cracked her door open and peered down the hall. The bathroom door was ajar but both the doors to Dr. Watson's room on the other side and Sherlock's at the front of the house were still closed. She sucked in a breath and tiptoed past them and down the wide, wooden staircase with its ornate, oriental themed rug. She paused at the bottom in the stairs and took in the grand entry. It wasn't overly large but all the rich, red cedar wood detailing in the wainscoting was gorgeous. She glanced up. A delicate crystal chandelier sparkled as the first streams of light filtered through the half-moon stained glass window above the heavy, cedar door.

It was odd to feel at once as if she didn't quite fit in but also belonged. Perhaps that was because she hadn't earned her place and wasn't really the home's mistress in the real sense of the word. Her marriage was essentially a sham.

With a sigh, she continued into the comfortable parlour. That's when she received the fright of her life.

"Good morning."

Her breath caught in her chest as she whirled towards the front of the room to face the owner of the velvety voice. Instantly, her face flamed as she remembered her wicked response to its sound in her dreams. She smacked her lips together as pale eyes locked with hers.

"G-Good morning," she returned breathlessly once she regained her faculties.

Sherlock sat in a chair near the room's coal fireplace with its cast iron insert embedded within an arch surrounded by an intricate plaster casement. With what appeared to be very controlled movments, he closed the book he had been reading and put it aside. He was so very large and imposing in the small room. He wore a similar dressing gown to hers but it was parted and she could see his night clothes beneath. She swallowed as she took in the sight of not one, but two buttons open at the neck of the deep purple top. Her gaze flicked back to his face and heat rose again in her cheeks.

Once, while at school, one of her instructors had put her on the spot and questioned her on a subject which she had not studied very well. The result was her humiliation in front of a class full of people. Yet, somehow this felt a million times more awkward. Especially considering the way Sherlock's eyes constricted as he studied her wearing his dressing gown. He looked a bit irritated about something which made her squeeze her toes together.

"I-I am sorry, am I disturbing you?"

A muscle flexed in his jaw. "Yes."

"Oh!" She turned to leave, mortified by that single utterance.

"Stop," he said quickly. "Forgive me, I am concerned with your health. That is all. Why are you out of bed?"

She looked back at him shyly. "I am feeling much better. I wanted to stretch my legs."

"Indeed," his eyes flicked down to her bare feet. "Hmm, we will have to remedy this."

Molly glanced downwards. "W-What?"

"You cannot traipse around in a flimsy nightdress, borrowed robe and bare feet. You need . . . proper attire."

She felt a wrinkle develop between her brows. Mr. Woodley had stolen everything from her save for her papers, a bit of currency and her mother's ruby wedding set that she had managed to stow in her handbag. All her clothing, toiletries, shoes and her precious books had been in the trunks he'd taken.

She willed away tears. "Yes, I had some fine clothes and a nice pair of slippers but unfortunately, they are gone. I hope in the next day or two if you would be so kind, that I might visit the Sisters and press upon their goodwill once more. I am sure they could find me a few items to wear-"

His fingers drummed noisily on the arm of his dark brown, leather bound chair.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "I will purchase you a new wardrobe. Mrs. Hudson can visit the shops today and find you a few things. When you are better, you can go yourself and order whatever you will need."

She shook her head adamantly. "N-No, I cannot accept that, Mr. Holmes."

The froth of hair on his head jerked as he sat up rigidly. "We agreed you would address me by my given name, did we not, Molly? And yes, you will accept my offer. I will not have my wife seen about town wearing discarded rags from the charity bin."

She swallowed. "No one needs to know I am your wife!"

He snorted. "My dear, it is nearly impossible to keep a secret in New Westminster. This is a very tight knit community. No doubt, word of our nuptials has already made the rounds. Father Henry is not the most discrete fellow."

Molly's face flushed. How silly of her to think the new clothing would be for her benefit. He did not want her to embarrass him! She felt very foolish all of a sudden. She wobbled on her feet as she searched around for a place to sit.

"You are looking peaked," he mumbled. "Are you sure you are well?"

She lifted her chin. "I a-am."

He held out a hand and wiggled his fingers at her. He raised his brows expectantly. She blinked at him a couple of times.

"Come here," he bit out.

Her legs trembled. What did he want?

"Molly Holmes, obey your husband and come here," he said gruffly.

She was too stunned to retort even as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. With a rigid spine and a stiff gait she approached his chair. Her eyelids flickered in annoyance. Obey! If she wasn't beholden to him for all he'd done, she would give him an earful.

He watched her intently until she stopped just in front of his chair. She was close enough that her dressing gown brushed his legs. The trembling in her limbs made her knees feel a bit weak. She drew in a breath to fortify herself. Then, unexpectedly, long, elegant fingers reached for her arm. She set her lips together as she felt them, warm and just a little rough, glide along the back of her hand underneath the slinky fabric of her sleeve. He gently turned her hand over, slid his fingers around her wrist and pressed them against her pulse.

"Your heart beat is quite erratic," he murmured. "You are over-exerting yourself."

Her heart definitely pounded in her chest but it had nothing to do with her waning sickness. Her skin burned where he touched her, a scorching heat spread to the rest of her body. She kept swallowing. Her mouth watered. A tenseness in her middle made her ache in unfamiliar ways. She appraised the smooth flesh his exposed collar again and found herself wondering what the rest of him looked like.

"Your skin keeps changing color," he remarked. "I think you should sit down."

Her lips parted. She was having trouble breathing. Where was she supposed to sit? On his lap?

Sherlock rose quickly from his chair, growing above her like a thunderous cloud. Her eyes followed his until her neck strained as she looked up at him and his plush lips. She pulled in another shaky breath. He still had hold of her wrist.

"Or perhaps, it would be better if you lie down," he murmured.

The first image that popped into her mind was of him stretching alongside her on her bed upstairs. She could almost hear it creaking under his weight. Oh, good Lord, what was wrong with her? She was positively wanton. If she were Catholic, she'd have to go to confession.

She did feel a bit lightheaded then. Her vision of him, loose dark curls framing his decadent face, began to go in and out of focus. She shook her head and nearly fell over. Sherlock's hand planted right in the middle of her lower back.

"Molly?" His voice was much softer.

Her breaths quickened. She clutched his upper arm for support. Christ, he was solid. In a fraction of a second, he scooped her up into his arms. He had done this before, when she had been enfeebled, but she had not been able to appreciate being cradled against his broad chest the same way. He made her feel tiny, weightless.

"This i-is not n-necessary," she stuttered.

"I disagree, I'm taking you back upstairs."

"No, please, I-I want to stay with you."

He stiffened. His arms tightened on her small frame. She found herself stumbling over her tongue to backtrack as his lips twitched.

"Er, um, n-no, that is not quite what I meant," she said quickly. "I –ah- I would like to remain down here for a bit. I am going a bit mad by myself in that room."

She felt his chest lift as he inhaled a deep breath. "I see."

Sherlock spun around and surveyed the room. He stepped towards the lounge and then lowered her down to it like she was a sleeping baby. His hair tickled her face as he ensured she was comfortable. When she turned her head to give thanks, her lips accidentally came into contact with his temple. Without even thinking, she kissed the warm flesh.

"Thank-you, Sherlock," she whispered.

He froze for an instant and then jerked his head back. His eyes narrowed in confusion and his mouth opened. He moved his lips as if to speak but nothing came out. He gave his head a shake, stood up quickly and cleared his throat.

"I am going to get you a blanket," he started away, then stopped and turned back. "W-Would you like some t-tea?"

Molly chewed her lip and nodded vigorously. "Yes, that would be l-lovely."

As soon as he stepped out of the room, she covered her face with her hands. She could not believe what she had just done. She'd kissed him! She hoped he just thought she was insane, not a moral reprobate. Then she heard a cough from the entry to the parlour. She looked up to see Mrs. Hudson with a grin on her face. She wagged her eyebrows.

"There you are, child," she cooed. "Feeling better, are you?"

Molly couldn't speak. She just dipped her head as Mrs. Hudson bustled towards her.

"Well, your colour is certainly looking better," she winked. "You're nice and pink."

Pink was probably an understatement. Molly crossed her arms over her middle as embarrassment made her squirm. Mrs. Hudson scooted next to her on the lounge and touched the back of her hand to Molly's forehead.

"Hmm, our boy has you a bit overwrought, does he?" Her smile widened and her nose wrinkled. "He has that effect on people."

"M-Mrs. Hudson-"

"Hush, sweetheart, it's alright. You're his wife. You should feel that way about him, it's natural and healthy and there's no reason you shouldn't encourage him. The look on his face when you kissed him was priceless. Our boy isn't used to affection. He needs more of it."

Molly looked away, suddenly bereft. Her heart was going to shatter when she finally bid adieu to this home and its occupants.

 _"You can be assured that I have no designs on keeping you."_

Sherlock had spoken those words and she would be wise to recite them to herself often. He had done her a favor, no more than that, and he probably wished he had not. She hadn't died even though it had been all but a certainty. She wondered how long it would be before his brother produced an annulment and she was sent on her way.

Mrs. Hudson must have noticed the look on her face. "Molly? You look a bit sad."

"Oh, n-no, I'm not," she replied. "I'm just a little cold."

Her caretaker smiled. "I'll go see where Sherlock is at with your blanket and tea."

Mrs. Hudson tootled off towards the back of the parlor and through a door that must lead to the kitchen. Molly pulled her knees up and tucked her feet into her dressing gown. She stared out the window as buckets of rain drenched the gardens. It rained there a lot, not unlike England. Strangely, she didn't miss her home country at all. She'd well and truly left it behind. She was going to become a Canadian, she decided, and make her life on this side of the world. She would start volunteering at St. Mary's if the sisters would have her and see if she couldn't get work at the larger Royal Columbian Hospital. She'd scrimp and save and buy herself some property. She could picture a cottage with a small vegetable garden and children with bouncing black curls mucking about.

She slapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a scoff. Bouncing black curls! She looked down at her dressing gown. The first thing she would request Mrs. Hudson purchase was her own robe otherwise, she might start thinking she could somehow truly become Sherlock's wife. That kind of thinking was the surest path to heartbreak. The man did not seem to want much to do with her. He had not visited her since her health had improved and took the first opportunity to run from her when she had kissed him.

She rubbed her fingers over her mouth and closed her eyes. Damn, she shouldn't have given in to her impulse. She now had a reference for what his flesh felt like beneath her lips. She wouldn't sleep again that night.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg Lestrade scratched at his temple. "We're at our wit's end, Mr. Holmes. We aren't any closer to figuring out who our mystery woman is than we were last week when she was brought to us."

Sherlock frowned and shifted his wooden chair forward. There were several missives spread out over the constable's desk from different sources.

"Why am I not surprised?" He murmured as he scanned the notes.

John cleared his throat and spoke quickly. "You've not received any reports of structure fires or missing women?"

Lestrade glanced back and forth between Sherlock and John. "No, and I've made enquiries in every town up the river to the end of the valley. I had my officers personally check in at Fort Langley and Port Hammond and ask around, but they returned without any news."

Sherlock set his teeth together and sat back. He touched his fingers together and propped them under his chin as he contemplated the lack of new information regarding their dead woman. After he had seen her body, he had surmised she must have been an occupant of a home along the river that had caught fire. He had been all but certain that she escaped from the blaze, walked herself to the river to soothe her blistering skin, but succumbed to either the burns themselves or unconsciousness which precipitated her drowning.

"Any new ideas? We're fresh out," Lestrade prodded.

Sherlock pushed himself up from his seat as the ticking of nearby carriage clock became intolerable. "I will have to give this some more thought, Constable. However, it is beginning to appear as if our unfortunate mermaid may have been murdered."

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Murdered? Oh, I doubt that very much, Mr. Holmes. People around here don't murder each other, this isn't New York or London. We don't have any 'Jack-the-Ripper' types running around these parts. This poor woman had to have been a victim of an unfortunate accident."

Sherlock huffed. "If you've figured this out, Constable, why are you wasting my time?"

The officer lifted his chin. "Well I thought you could help us identify the lady. Someone's missing a wife or daughter. It's our duty to inform them that we've found their family member."

The chair beneath Sherlock scraped noisily against the floor as he shoved it back and stood quickly. "I thought you were police officers, not glorified messengers. Open your eyes, man. There have been no accidents that would explain this woman's death. Thus, if something can't be explained by misfortune, it must be rationalized by fate. Someone intended for this woman to die and I will prove it to you."

Lestrade jumped to his feet, as did John, and smoothed out the jacket of his uniform. "No need to get snippy, Mr. Holmes. You go ahead and investigate and we'll do the same. Then, we will all see who's right."

"Yes, and that will still be me," Sherlock moved to leave and snatched his hat from where he'd hung it earlier by the door of Lestrade's modest office. "John, are you coming?"

John sighed and gave the Constable an apologetic look. "Will you inform us if you learn anything new?"

Lestrade pursed his lips a moment and then nodded. "As long as you do the same."

John extended his hand. "Thank you, Constable."

The officer shook the offered appendage. "See you, John. Sherlock. Hope you enjoy May Day."

Sherlock dipped his chin in the barest acknowledgement and made his made out of the detachment with John close behind. They walked to the edge of the boardwalk where their horses were tethered.

"That was rather poorly done, Sherlock," John buttoned his coat. "We haven't learned anything to disprove Constable Lestrade's notion. You did not need to insult the man."

Sherlock flipped up his collar and pulled the brim of his hat lower against the slight chill in the spring air. He waited until passing carriage clattered by before he spoke again.

"Forgive me, John, but I cannot tolerate indifference to the idea that there may be a depraved murderer on the loose setting young women ablaze."

John shook his head. "Listen to yourself! That's a rather fantastical idea, don't you think?"

With a loud sigh, Sherlock looked towards the heavens. "We are left with a remainder, John. That odd number, however indivisible it may seem, must be the answer to our equation. It is my opinion our Miss Fraser, whomever she may actually be, met her end at the hands of another. We need to find who was responsible because I believe our killer is not done yet."

"Alright, alright," John let out a breath. "God knows, you're always right about these things."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he absentmindedly looked down the lengths of the boardwalks. Normally, he would be quite excited to have a murder to solve but this particular case turned his stomach. Their unclaimed female had been disfigured, discarded like trimmings and left to drift down the massive Fraser River. She could easily have been Molly.

His macabre thoughts seemed incongruent to the happenings before him. Columbia Street was a flurry of activity for New Westminster's annual May Day celebration to be held on the following day. Several shop owners were in the process of decorating their store fronts while a crew of men with a shaky wooden ladder strung up a garland constructed of greenery from fir, pine and cedar fronds between the power poles along the street.

"May Day is the most irrational of celebrations," he muttered, he glanced back at John.

John grinned from ear to ear and blinked rapidly as if relieved to change the subject. "Come now, the city prides themselves on this fête. It's quite a lot of fun. Even you have to enjoy the atmosphere. It's a break from the mundane."

Sherlock's brows twisted. "These festivities are the definition of mundane."

John laughed. "Oh, surely there is something you enjoy. The parade?"

"No."

"The band?"

Sherlock cringed. "Definitely not."

"How about the dance? You must enjoy the dance."

Sherlock was distracted by some movement and found himself staring down a man intent on walking between the pair of them as they conversed just out of the main path. The man's eyes rounded, his face reddened and circled around them instead.

Sherlock scoffed.

"The May Day dance is the silliest tradition of all and the event I most wish to avoid. I will have to come up with some sort of excuse, however. Mycroft was quite perturbed that I skipped the Governor General's Gala last month," Sherlock shuddered. "These official functions are so tedious. Inevitably, I am forced to partner with all manner of vacuous, simpering misses intent on entrapment-"

John smirked and crossed his arms. "But not this year, my friend. You're married, remember?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a moment as he became lost in thought. "Yeees, I had not thought about that."

"And don't you think Molly would enjoy attending some of the festivities?"

"Mm, I don't know. She may not feel well enough yet. She is such a . . . fragile creature."

John snorted. "Fragile? She's a hardy little thing, I'd say, and it has been a couple weeks since she turned the corner. A person would never know she had been sick. You have to take her to some of these functions and introduce her to others in this town so that she might make some friends. The dance would be a good place to start."

Sherlock's back went rigid.

"I am not sure I want to share her yet," he mumbled.

A brow hiked high on John's forehead. Sherlock sputtered a breath from his lips.

"Remove that look from your face at once. That is not what I meant."

John held up his hands. "I never said anything."

"Yes, but you thought it and your thoughts are deafening."

The smaller man just tucked his lips in and looked away. Then, something or someone seemed to catch his eye.

"Speak of the devil," he said with a laugh.

Sherlock looked past him towards one of the shops and caught a glimpse of a form that had etched itself into his mind. Molly. He frowned as a man doffed his hat, smiled like a cat and held the door for his wife to pass through. Sherlock's feet were moving before his thoughts completely formed.

"What the bloody hell is she doing out unescorted?" He asked gruffly to no one in particular.

He didn't wait for a response from John, but stalked towards the shop she had entered. Some of his irritation subsided when he spotted Wiggins tending to his pair of sable mares pulling his carriage. At least Molly had not ventured downtown on her own. Before he went inside he paused and observed her through the window as she conversed with a woman behind a glass display case. Then, he saw Molly withdraw some money.

"Sherlock-" John began as he caught up.

Again, he did not wait for John to finish speaking. As gingerly as he could, he cracked the front door of the shop open and reached up to silence the bell overhead. Molly and the clerk were so engrossed in their discussion, they did not hear him approach. John must have decided to remain outside because he did not follow.

"B-But, if it's not too much trouble, I would like to look at that hat," Sherlock heard Molly say.

He could not take his eyes off the nape of her neck as he neared. Her warm, brown hair was swept into an up do and several tendrils had escaped and curled against her neck. A small, dark mole peaked out from under the collar of her ill-fitting, dark brown jacket which was obviously tailored for a much larger woman. The irrational urge to reach out and touch, or taste, her mole made him shake his head.

Coveting one's wife, it was a form of madness!

"Um, it's very dear, Miss. I do not believe you will be able to afford it," the clerk replied.

"Please, I should still like to look at it all the same," Molly said with an undercurrent of determination. "Can you fetch it down for me?"

"But, Miss-"

Sherlock chose that moment to interject. "She's a Mrs., actually."

The clerk looked up. Her face reddened.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I did not see you come in."

Molly spun around. Sherlock noticed that her white and brown shirtwaist style dress with its puffed front was also as equally unsuitable for her small frame. Her eyes went round and then cast down dejectedly. He felt a clenching of his stomach. Why was she unhappy to see him?

Sherlock removed his hat and set it down on the glass countertop. He smoothed back his hair and glowered pointedly at the clerk.

"Good, Morning, Mrs. Kitlitdz. Now, what seems to be the issue with showing my wife that hat? I appears to be available for purchase."

The middle aged woman's face lost all its colour. "The young miss here is your wife?"

Molly did not lift her eyes. Again, he felt the twist of something deep inside.

"Yes, we married . . . very recently."

Mrs. Kitlitdz was stunned a moment. Then she gathered herself.

"Oh, oh, well congratulations! There's no issue, Mr. Holmes, none at all. I'll just find a stool."

Mrs. Kitlitdz bobbed her head and hurried to the back of the store. Sherlock cupped Molly's elbow gently, turned her to face him and plucked her bag from her hands. She made a sound of indignation and scrunched her face.

"That's mine," she hissed.

Sherlock studied her thoughtfully. "What's mine is yours, Molly."

Her face deepened its shade of crimson. She pressed her lips together. She was adorable even though she was very annoyed with him.

"Why are you even thinking about buying a hat with your own money?" He asked sharply. "I told you I would buy everything you need."

Molly raised her chin defiantly. "Because, I-I wanted one and I can afford it. I do not need your money nor p-permission for every purchase."

Sherlock's eyes raised to the hat in question. It had a wide brim but was very plain and serviceable flat, brown colour. He looked left of it to a soft, grey version in a similar style but with several short, white feathers in a spray on one side with a longer, white and grey plume arching up and out. A broad, silky-white ribbon encircled the cap of the hat.

The clerk returned with a stool. When she reached for the brown hat, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Ahem, no, the grey one, please."

Molly looked at him with confusion. "Now that hat really is dear."

Mrs. Kitlitdz handed the second hat hesitantly to Molly. "I just received this one. Apparently all the girls in France are wearing them."

Molly sniffed as she inelegantly suppressed a snort. Sherlock took the hat from her hands. Perhaps the styles in New Westminster had not caught up with Europe, but it was a fine item all the same and more befitting her feminine features. Gently, he arranged it atop her head. She looked up anxiously from beneath its brim. Somehow, her brown eyes looked even larger than usual. He swallowed and wondered if it was, perhaps, not a very good idea to make her more attractive.

"Perfect. We'll take it," He scanned quickly through the displayed merchandise past all manner of serviceble, plain attire and muted bolts of fabric, until his eyes fell upon a pale, golden, yellow gown with delicate embroidery hanging near the rear of the store. He knew in an instant that with a few small alterations, the dress would fit Molly nicely.

"And that dress," he gestured towards the garment.

Mrs. Kitlitdz shook her head. Molly made a cry of protest.

"What is the problem?"

"It's too expensive!"

"It's reserved for someone else!"

Yet, Sherlock knew he had to see Molly in this particular dress with its scooped neck, capped sleeves and fitted bodice. The style would allow him a view of her collar and slim arms and all the while, she would be in his embrace with his hand at her narrow waist as they danced. Without another thought, he made Mrs. Kitlitdz an offer she could not refute. Molly pulled him aside after the clerk gleefully danced off to pack their purchases.

"What on God's green Earth could I have use for a dress like that?" She whispered as the feather on her new hat flicked back and forth.

He wanted to ask if she knew how appealing she was at that moment but resisted. He frowned inwardly at his own thoughts. He played a dangerous game by taking an interest in his new wife, but he was compelled by urges he could not comprehend. Everything about Molly, her determined pride, her willfulness (the single-handed reason she had lived, he was sure), and her atypical moral convictions made her more and more endearing.

Sherlock smiled tightly. "You will have need of that dress tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson will alter it as required."

She made a face. "T-Tomorrow?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, Mrs. Holmes. You are accompanying me to a dance."


	9. Chapter 9

Molly wrung her hands as she surveyed the woman who stared back at her with terror in her eyes. She practiced speaking her name again in her head.

 _"Mrs. Margaret Holmes."_

"My dear child, you look positively ill," commented Mrs. Hudson. "Do you not like what you see?"

Molly leaned into Mrs. Hudson's light embrace for a moment to acquire some of her strength. Mrs. Hudson stood behind her with her hands on her upper arms peering over her shoulder into the mirror.

"I-I can't say," Molly murmured. "Except that I do not know who this person is in the mirror. She looks like a lady."

The older woman smiled with delight. "Mm hmm, she does, and a fine one at that!"

Molly touched her upswept hair with shaking fingers. Mrs. Hudson had curled it, plated a braid and spun it all up into a fussy knot at the back of her head while keeping the front romantic and soft with several loose curls framing her face. Somehow, she'd also managed to incorporate a long crystal, rope necklace into the coif that looped back and forth in the form of several sparkling head bands. The really dramatic change in her appearance could be attributed to the shimmering, silk ball gown in the most beautiful shade of liquid gold enriched by the yellow light from a nearby tungsten bulb. Fine silver threads and tiny crystals embellished the bodice to form delicately embroidered flowers. Despite the dress' voluminous, full skirts and rigid boning to enhance her already tiny waist, it was weightless as if she were wearing but a wispy nightdress and she felt nearly naked in it. Her shoulders, pale and slender, and the length of her collar were exposed above a gather of chiffon trim which lined the top of the dress and encircled her upper arms.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes sparkled in the mirror. She had an, _'I'm very pleased with myself look'_ that made Molly's face heat.

"Our boy is going to be speechless when he sees you," she tittered.

Molly drew in a breath. "I imagine he has known more than his fair share of attractive women. I am certain many of them would put me to shame."

Although, she did look very feminine and pretty for a change, and she could not help but feel excited. She had never in all her life worn anything so beautiful nor attended a dance which required such an outfit. As she whirled to face Mrs. Hudson, the heavenly skirts swished against her legs.

"Be honest," she whispered. "Do I look very silly dressed up in such finery? I surely feel that way."

Mrs. Hudson frowned and pursed her lips. "You look stunning, Molly. If Sherlock takes his eyes off you even once this evening, I'll . . . well, I'll eat my best bonnet."

Molly smiled shyly. "Hmm, I hope you are hungry, Mrs. Hudson."

She winked. "Not at all."

A knock sounded at the door to Molly's room. Mrs. Hudson's eyes rounded.

"Are we out of time already?" She called.

"Nearly," Sherlock answered through the wooden barrier.

Molly's stomach flipped over. Her legs started quivering. She almost could not bear the anticipation. What would he think? Would he be pleased or disappointed? She desperately wanted him to be pleased, and perhaps even a little proud of his temporary wife. The more people she had met around town the more she realized that he was nearly an infamous character in the small city. Everyone seemed to either know, or know of him, and from what she gathered, he was not only well-respected but highly esteemed.

Mrs. Hudson wagged her brows at Molly. "Ready?"

Molly shook her head. Her whole body flushed.

"Not exactly!"

However, Mrs. Hudson smirked and opened the door despite Molly's apprehension. Molly smoothed her hands over the billowing skirts and folded them together in front to quell their vibrating. She swallowed several times. Lord, she could not fathom why she was so nervous, except that maybe she had developed a crush on her husband. Oh, good God, she had! Yes, he was a self-important prat who could not resist ordering her about, but if she analyzed every instance in which he had done so, it had usually been for her benefit. He was abrasive, short-tempered, haughty, but ridiculously kind when it mattered.

He stepped into the room carrying a slim, wooden box and her heart stopped as she viewed his striking profile. He wore black as usual, but this time, it was a suit in a more formal cut with tails and a black shirt and waistcoat topped with a black bowtie. She bit her lip. She was married to sin, that was all she could think as she scanned his hair which had been slicked back severely but still curled at the nape of his neck.

"Would you mind if I spoke privately to Molly a moment?" He requested in a low voice.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and nodded. "Certainly. I'll just go fetch her a necklace and some earrings from my collection-"

"No need, Mrs. Hudson. I have already taken care of that."

She nodded with a grin, then scooted by Sherlock and pulled the door closed after she had left.

 _"Naughty, naughty, troublemaker,"_ Molly thought anxiously as she watched Mrs. Hudson disappear. She began to panic. _"Don't leave me here with him. What am I to say?"_

Like the strike of a whip, Sherlock's eyes found her standing nearly against the wall while she tried to blend into the wallpaper. They travelled from the floor up the length of her body, lingered on her shoulders and neck and then finally met her gaze. Again, he looked a bit upset in the way his eyes constricted, his cheek jumped and his nostrils flared. She wondered if he did not approve of what he viewed. Her heart fell as she cast her eyes downwards.

"I h-hope I will suffice," she whispered.

The floors creaked under his footfalls and she couldn't help looking up again. She was caught in his intense focus. His light eyes were such a contrast to his dark clothing, at once both green and blue with flecks of gold. His left eye had an unusual spot of brown just above his iris as if someone had dipped the tip of a paintbrush there but decided not to fill in the rest. She could almost get lost in those eyes.

"You will more than suffice," he murmured as he surveyed her again. "That dress suits you very well."

Molly flushed so quickly that she felt it from her toes to her scalp where her skin prickled. Lord, but he was close. She heard the snap of a lid opening and looked down to see something akin to a pearl necklace and earrings in the box Sherlock held. Except, instead of pearls, the individual stones looked like drops of honey and caramel. Her hand hit her chest and she started shaking.

"Are those f-for me?"

"Um, yes," his voice rumbled. "I could not pass this amber set up when I saw it at the jeweller's and while I do like to irritate my brother, I do not want to push him over the edge by wearing women's jewellery when I have already I disregarded his directive to dress in white-tie. So, obviously, you must wear them."

She shook her head at him. "Y-You are too ridiculous."

His eyelid fluttered. "You do not like them?"

"N-No, they are gorgeous but you should not spend so much money on me. The hat, my dress and now this jewellery! I-I cannot ever hope to repay you for such expensive items."

He frowned.

"I do not wish for you to reimburse me for anything," he grumbled. "Besides, I am expected to decorate you so these are less a gift and more a necessity."

Molly swallowed a lump of disappointment. Once again, she felt very silly.

"Can you turn around?" He asked gruffly. "I will help you put on this necklace."

She turned next to her nightstand to face the wall, which in her nervous retreat from him when he had entered the room, was a mere foot away. She stood there a moment trying not to quiver. Then his hands came over her head with the glinting strand passing in front her eyes before the cool stones rested against her skin. She felt his fingers brush the back of her neck as he fiddled with the clasp. Shivers tingled up her spine as his warm breaths pulsed against her skin. She turned around once he was finished.

"Do you need help with the earrings?" He asked.

"N-No," she scooped them from the box.

He watched as she quickly fastened the dangling amber drops to her ears then set the box atop the nightstand. Then he reached into his pocket.

"I have one more item."

He produced a gold ring and drew her left hand towards him. She felt the smooth slide of the metal band along her flesh until it seated snugly at the base of her finger. At that same second, she noticed the glint of a gold ring on his left hand as well. She blinked several times down at each ring and then splayed her fingers out to get a better look at the heavy gold circle that seared her with its weight. It was intricately carved with two strange, yet beautiful impressionistic-type animal figures facing each other with their bodies stretching around the band.

"Wh-What are the etchings?" She asked softly, her heart compressing. "They're lovely."

It was yet another extravagant gift she felt guilty for accepting, but she curled her fingers into her palm instinctively. This little piece of gold was hers and it would have to be pried off her cold, dead hand before anyone else sought to claim it. Sherlock's lips twitched. He inhaled quickly.

"When I first came to Canada with my brother, we travelled around quite a bit as official representatives of Queen Victoria. One of the first places we visited was a set of islands far north of here inhabited by a people known as the Haida. Their artwork is beautiful beyond description and rich with animal symbology. Mr. Carruthers, the jeweller, is actually of Haida descent on his mother's side. I asked him if he could incorporate some of his artwork into the fashioning of our rings and he carved these wolves with their bushy tails," he paused a moment and rolled his own ring on his finger. "For the Haida, wolves symbolize family, loyalty, honor-"

"I don't understand, Sherlock," Molly interupted him and searched his face. "These are too lovely to be wasted on a relationship such as ours. Wh-Why would you go to so much t-trouble?"

An emotion she couldn't quite read rippled through his flesh like an undercurrent. His lips parted but he had no answer. He frowned ever so slightly and then flicked his gaze to her mouth. The next thing she knew, his arm snaked around her waist and he jerked her up against his frame. For a brief moment, he stared down at her with a conflicted look on his face and she felt his fingers dig into her back. Molly had just enough time to gasp in surprise before his head descended and his lips crashed down on hers.

She didn't know what to do. She had never been kissed before and it was unlike anything she had ever experienced. His lips were firm yet supple, insistent yet yielding. They moved and coaxed until her own lips trembled and responded in kind. A deep sound, almost of guttural pain, emanated from his chest and vibrated his lips before he clutched her even tighter and intensified the kiss. She held on to his upper arms to steady herself and prevent the sudden weakness she experienced in her limbs from causing her to collapse. Flush after flush rolled through her belly like tides violently slamming ashore. He completely overwhelmed her senses; the hard length of him, the heat pouring off his body, the way his legs tangled with her skirts and the firm grasp of his large hands on her waist. Then, unexpectedly, his tongue stroked along the seam of her lips, warm and wet. That bit of sliding friction, the delirious pleasure of it, made something needy flare within her and tighten the juncture between her thighs.

Impulsively, she touched her tongue to his and subsequently wobbled, unable to overcome the liquefaction of her muscles upon that single, sinful caress. Sherlock snapped his head up and stared down at her with great, heaving breaths. His eyes darted back and forth over her face.

"You are inexperienced with this sort of thing," he whispered raggedly.

Her face flamed as she nodded. She was mortified even as she wanted him to do it again. Her lips were still damp and felt a bit swollen. Her body hummed like a plucked string. A great longing made parts of her anatomy feel very empty. He swore and closed his eyes briefly.

"My behavior is inexcusable," he cleared his throat. "I am sorry, Molly. Forgive me. I should not have taken that liberty with you."

His hold slackened but he did not relinquish her until she planted her feet. Even as he let go, she swayed a little. She was so ashamed of herself in that moment. He must think her a complete ninny.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said quietly. "Please, let us forget it happened."

He pressed his lips together and dipped his head. He turned, stopped, and looked over his shoulder.

"We should get going. I will see to the carriage. Please descend as soon as you are ready."

With that, he departed as if the fires of hell licked at his heels. She could empathize as she felt very much the same. She sat down on her bed a moment and gathered her wits. Her husband had just kissed her senseless. She raised her hand to her mouth and bit her knuckle to prevent a sigh as she closed her eyes and revisited the sensations. She could swear he was the devil himself sent to tempt her into wickedness. If he had pressed for more, she did not think she could have resisted.

Again, her insides churned. What had just happened? Did Sherlock desire her as much as she desired him? She took another deep breath. It seemed impossible but then, she had learned a great deal about a man's instinctual behavior in medical school. Perhaps he had just been overcome by base impulse. He had certainly looked regretful. Not to mention, the expression on his face when she admitted she was inexperienced had been akin to a punch to her midsection. He'd blanched and appeared ill. Her crude attempts to reciprocate his attentions must have been mortifying to him as if he were kissing a child instead of a grown woman.

She covered her heated face for a moment. She would have to avoid being anywhere near him in the future lest she embarrass herself any further. Then she groaned. She had a whole night ahead of her of just that! She could almost feel the wave of humiliation headed her way because it was going to be impossible not to tremor at his touch, or prevent herself from turning red every time he looked at her or stumble during a dance when their eyes met.

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed in spite of her heretic ways. "Dear God, save me from myself."

* * *

"My, my, the newest Mrs. Holmes has recovered very well," Mycroft murmured to Sherlock's side. "In fact she has quite the healthy glow about her."

Sherlock could not tear his eyes away from Molly across the expansive hall. The chaos of the lively dance seemed muted around her as if she exsited in a bubble. He could not help feeling anxious every time she left his side and left she had, much more frequently than he wished. He had not even managed to dance with her once, as she'd been claimed by nearly every man of his acquaintance before he could interject. Currently, she partnered with the overtly charming Willard Grayson, one of the local bankers, as his wife looked on suspiciously.

"Yes, I had not factored for her inner strength," Sherlock finally replied to Mycroft. "She was keener to survive than I credited her for."

Mycroft exhaled noisily. "So, what now, little brother? Are you ready to seek an annulment?"

Sherlock finally dragged his eyes from the allure of the girl in the yellow dress and glowered at his older brother. "No, I have not yet ascertained what threat Tom Woodley may or may not yet pose."

He noticed Mycroft's eyes graze the ring on his left hand. "Hmm, will an annulment even be a legal option when the time comes, I wonder?"

Sherlock balled his hand into a fist and raised a brow in ire. "What do you mean by that?"

"Must I explain or cannot you figure it out yourself?" Mycroft studied him through narrowed eyes again. "No, you can't, can you? Oh, Sherlock, I never should have let you talk me into this arrangement. It went against my better judgement even when I thought it was temporary."

Sherlock's hackles raised. He did not like to appear weak to his older brother. He especially did not appreciate being mocked. Before he could check himself, he turned fully to face Mycroft and responded impulsively.

"It is temporary," he bit out in an angry whisper. "Nothing has changed. I promised that I would protect her and I am a man of my word. I do not intend to become involved with Molly if that is what you are insinuating, but I am obliged to offer her protection. I cannot just turn her out. How would that look? Everyone would think I was a cad. So, whatever it is that you think you have observed about my behavior is wrong. I do not have feelings for her and believe me, I will be happy to shake her hand and send her on her way as soon as humanely possible."

Even as he finished his declaration, Sherlock knew by the sudden tight look on Mycroft's face that Molly was standing behind him and had heard his every word. He whirled to find her already pale face drained of all color.

"Molly! Christ!"

She swallowed and turned to flee but he reached for her wrist and spun her into his arms. "This is my dance I believe."

As the music for a waltz swelled, he backed her onto the parquet floor with his hand tight on her waist. His thoughts were a scramble. She looked distraught and he knew he should apologize but he could not form the words.

"Let go of me," she whispered under her breath.

"Erm, . . . no," he replied simply.

"Y-You are . . . are . . . an ass. I dislike you. Yes, I have decided I dislike you more than any man I have ever met."

Sherlock lifted his chin and plastered a smile to his face.

"Even Tom Woodley?" He growled through his teeth.

She turned her adorable nose up. "At the moment, yes."

"Good," Sherlock muttered. "It's just as well. You were bound to see fault in me eventually."

Molly seemed to purposefully drive a heel onto his foot as they danced out of the path of another couple. He winced.

"I've seen fault in you since we met," she returned bitterly. "I just inconveniently overlooked it."

He tightened his hold. "I don't see why what I told Mycroft is of any news to you nor why you should be . . . distressed by what I said. It is not like I was giving up any information withheld from you."

She wrinkled her nose. "I am not distressed."

They danced in silence for the rest of the song with Molly avoiding eye contact with him throughout. He wanted to spit. Foolish pride! However, he knew this had to happen, that the spell between them should be broken. He was not a man who should have a wife. He would bore of her eventually and break her heart. Of that, he was certain, because no woman yet had been able to hold his attention for any amount of meaningful time. He had almost given in to the idea that Molly might be different, but that kind of thinking was illogical. He could not afford to be illogical!

She tried to pull away from him as the song wound down but he held her close to him until the last possible moment. Anxiety gripped him in its icy embrace. He wanted her to think well of him. He wanted her to look at him with the same bashful admiration he had enjoyed these past weeks. If there wasn't a crowd around them to witness it, he might give in to the urge to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness.

"Molly?" He prodded.

She kept her eyes averted. He cursed himself again.

"Molly?"

"Do not concern yourself with me," she finally looked up at him again, her eyes were large and liquid. "I am not distressed."

He opened his mouth to respond but again, his words failed him. Her eyes scoured his face with a slight wrinkle between her brows.

"I am not distressed," she repeated. "I am just . . . disappointed."


	10. Chapter 10

Molly surveyed the dance that was still in full swing. The wooden floor vibrated underfoot as couples skipped and hopped to a lively tune. To her right and left, the so-called upper echelons of New Westminster society ladies conversed about all manner of pointless gossip. She only half-listened to their prattle, and almost completely drifted off in thought any time the alpha of the group, Olivia Grayson, chose to impart her wisdom. Truth be told, even if the conversation was interesting, Molly was too distracted by her confrontations with Sherlock from earlier in the evening to contribute much. She hardly knew what to do with herself. Part of her wanted to storm off while the other part felt obligated to pretend they were blissful newlyweds even though Sherlock's unkind words kept rattling through her head.

 _"I do not have feelings for her and believe me, I will be happy to shake her hand and send her on her way as soon as humanely possible."_

She knew she had no real right to be upset with him. Thus far, their relationship had been fairly one-sided. Sherlock had rescued her from clutches of an evil man, most likely saved her life by taking her in, sheltered, fed and provided for her and what had she done but leech off him? It was a nice thought for a while that he might somehow have come to care for her, enough to keep her, but what had she done to earn it? Nothing in her mind.

Molly sighed as she stole another look at him. How could she not? From across the expanse of the dance hall and the whirl of the dancers, he drew her eye like a bright flame. She felt a deep stab of pain in her heart upon gazing on his flawless profile. He was breathtaking; the man of her dreams. That was the problem, though. He was a dream, no . . . a fantasy. If her life thus far had taught her anything, it was that fantasies were fleeting and reality disappointing. She couldn't rely on what-ifs and could-bes. She needed to make her own dreams come true.

"My dear, Mrs. Holmes," a voice cooed. "You look positively vexed! What has put that frown on your face?"

Molly lifted her head and glanced at the woman whose shrill voice had cut through her thoughts. Olivia Grayson, the banker's wife, had an expectant look on her sour face. Molly drew a quick breath.

"F-Forgive me, I was distracted."

Molly didn't normally take an instant dislike to people but Olivia had a perpetual scowl of disapproval on her face underneath a practiced smile. She was about five years older than herself, a head taller and a third heavier with icy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Mrs. Grayson was attractive, but not appealing with her lips stretched thin in disdain. The effect made her look much older.

"What has caught your attention?" She enquired pointedly, then looked past to where Molly had been gazing.

Fortunately, Sherlock had moved off but in his place a woman with warm, brown skin and a long, raven braid spoke with Mary Morstan.

"Oh, I see," Olivia grinned like a crocodile. "I see, indeed. Hmph, well, you're quite right to be upset. There seems to be no discrimination to the types they let into these functions anymore."

The vapid Georgette Newton and Prudence Hayer who flanked Olivia tittered. Molly wrinkled her nose. She was beginning to wonder if she liked any of them.

"Um, e-excuse me? I-I don't follow."

Olivia flicked her fingers in the direction of Mary and the other woman. Her voice dropped an octave.

"You don't need to conceal your distaste around us, Mrs. Holmes. It's a disgrace that they let savages in here and this one is that, twice over."

Georgette's ginger curls bounced as she leaned forward with her hand half-covering her mouth.

"She's not only an Indian," she whispered, "but she's also part, well, black . . . and she's married to a white man, one of the police men. Anderson, I believe. It's disgusting."

Molly stared at them with her mouth hanging open for a moment. She looked at each of the women one by one in disbelief. She didn't know whether to laugh or smack them across their ignorant faces. She turned to see if there was something she had missed in her assessment of the woman. There was nothing savage or disgusting about her. She looked quite dignified, actually. She wore a plain, white gown with a sash slung over her shoulder in a unique hand-woven pattern. The garment was tied at the waist with a belt in a similar motif. The woman also seemed to be conversing quite freely with Mary who smiled and laughed as if delighted by what she heard.

"S-So, let me get this straight," Molly clarified with a tremor in her voice. "She's disgusting because she is . . . of mixed heritage?"

Olivia raised her chin. "Don't you agree?"

Molly shook her head and backed away from the group, suddenly mortified to be seen with them. "N-No, not at all. I-I cannot believe any of you would have such vile thoughts, let alone voice them."

Molly looked down at her beautiful wedding band. Someone with a similar heritage had created this wonderful work of art. How could the creator of such beauty, or anyone like them, be considered a savage?

She heard a couple shocked gasps from the ladies as she straightened herself to her full height and stared down her nose at them.

"Shame on you, all of you. Have you no kinship for her as a woman? Do you not struggle every day of your lives to be taken seriously? For your voice to count? She is no different than any of you . . ." Molly could see her words fell on deaf ears and came to the swift conclusion she did not want to spend another second in their company. "Actually, I-I sorely hope she is nothing like any of you. Excuse me."

She grabbed a handful of her skirts and swirled away from them. She stalked across the floor directly to where Mary and the woman stood. Mary's companion eyed her warily. Molly slowed her steps as she approached. She felt guilty for just having heard what she heard. The taint of it felt dirty, as if it clung to her skin like a stain. She hoped they didn't mistakenly lump her in as one of them.

"Molly! Oh, my goodness, look at you!" Mary exclaimed.

"Hello, Mary, how are you?" She inclined her head.

Mary was dressed in a simple, light green gown which intensified the colour of her greyish-green eyes and pale, blonde hair.

"I am well, very well," she looked at her friend. "Sally, this is the woman I was telling you about, Dr. Molly Hooper. Molly, this is Sally Anderson."

Molly threw a glare back over her shoulder and then stuck out her trembling hand. "It's Holmes now. Pleased to meet you."

Sally's brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she shook her hand. "Holmes, eh? As in Sherlock Holmes?"

"Erm, yes."

"Well, you're a brave one, aren't you?" She winked.

Molly pressed her lips together and shrugged. Both Sally and Mary laughed.

"I don't mean anything untoward by that," Sally corrected herself quickly. "He's a fine man, to be sure. He's just a different sort, isn't he? My husband is quite infatuated with him."

Molly finally smiled. "He seems to have that effect on people."

They all laughed Then, Molly fell right into conversation with the pair after their introductions as if they had been life-long friends. It was a sort of relief to have a proper exchange about subjects near and dear to her heart. Mary and Sally were exactly the kind of friends she had hoped to find in her new country. They were brash, opinionated, fearless and active in the community. The epitomized the modern female and everything she hoped the new world, Canada, would be about.

"Molly, you simply must join the New Westminster Council of Women," Mary declared. "I will talk to our president, Mrs. Hill. I am certain she would be thrilled to have an actual fully-trained medical doctor join our group. Not to mention, you have the ear of the local magistrate. Ooh, maybe you could convince your sister-in-law Anthea Holmes to join us as well."

Molly raised her brows. "Um, I wouldn't count on my having much influence over my brother or sister-in-law but your council sounds interesting. What do you do?"

Sally grinned. "We're just getting started so we're still working it all out but we're modelling ourselves after similar councils back east. See, we met the Governor General's wife, Lady Aberdeen, last month at the Gala and discovered that she's a fearsome advocate for women's rights. She invited Mary and I and several others to a talk and inspired us to do some good in this city. Our good friend, Mrs. Hill, set up the New Westminster local branch of Lady Aberdeen's National Council of Women of Canada organization which is non-sectarian and non-partisan. Our focus is social reform for both women and men. Right now, we're trying to improve some of the conditions at the Pen for women."

A frission of energy shot through Molly's body. A whole world of purpose opened up before her eyes.

"Yes, oh my goodness, yes! I would love to be involved with a group like this. What is the 'Pen', though? Is that a prison?"

Mary pursed her lips. "Yes, it's the prison they built out here when British Columbia agreed to become part of Canada. It's the largest one in the west. It's also a filthy, rotten place where women who are guilty of usually minor crimes are treated like swine. Our group has been pushing for access to the female inmates so we can provide some healthcare and assess if their basic hygiene needs are being met. There are a disproportionate amount of native women in there who also have no idea of their rights. We want to offer them some education so they aren't afraid to demand to be treated with some dignity."

By the time Mary was through with her elucidation, her hand was balled into a fist over her heart. Sally's back was rigid and she stood tall. Molly could not help being affected by their passion.

"Well, I cannot wait to join you. Perhaps I can attend your next meeting and convince your president in person to let me become a member," she said excitedly.

Mary clapped her hands together. "Yes, we meet Thursday afternoons at Mrs. Hills' house. You can come with me if you like."

Of course, the council was all volunteer work which Molly would be more than happy to do, but she needed to find a job in addition to that. She made a plan then to start offering her services the women at the meetings and then branch out from there. If she couldn't earn enough providing medical care, then at least she would connect with more people and perhaps find employment in other areas. Once she established her independence, she would do both her and her husband a favor and push for dissolution of their marriage, if not sooner.

She looked around for him again. The crowd at the dance seemed to be thinning. She imagined the festivities would be drawing to a close in short order. She spotted John making his way towards their trio with a nervous look on his face. When he stopped in front of them, he bowed his head.

"Good evening, ladies," his voice shook slightly, "I -ah- um, that is, Miss Morstan, would you care to dance?"

Mary was only too happy to flit off with John while Phillip Anderson claimed Sally for what turned out to be the last dance. Molly scanned the crowd again once she was left alone. She contemplated finding her way outside to see if Wiggins had returned with the carriage when a shadow loomed to her right. She glanced sideways just as Sherlock's hand grasped her wrist gently.

"One more dance, Mrs. Holmes," He murmured.

She tilted her head up defiantly. "No, thank-you, _Mr. Holmes_."

His eyes narrowed, one slightly more than the other, before she felt a tug and she was in his arms.

"It wasn't a request," he replied gruffly.

She sucked in a breath. She disliked that she was both incensed yet excited by his arrogance. Not wanting to make a scene, Molly let him lead her to the floor. She chewed her lip as he spread his fingers out over the small of her back and urged her closer with a sudden tightening of his arm. Her whole body flushed as if it had a mind of its own. Another waltz, she thought ruefully, lovely!

"I see you are making friends," he observed in a low tone.

"Yes," she recalled the rude comments Olivia and company had made earlier and hoped he did not agree with them. "Is that a problem?"

She inhaled a sharp breath as he spun her quickly to the left. "Not at all. Mary Morstan and Sally Anderson are two of the more level headed, intelligent women in this city. It does not surprise me that you would gravitate towards them."

"S-So, you would not disapprove of our becoming friends?"

He tilted his head. He looked confused.

"What does it matter if I approve or not? You are free to associate with whomever you wish. Well, within reason. I would prefer you have female friends."

Molly's face prickled with heat but she breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived, however.

"I also hear you are making enemies," he commented dryly.

Her cheeks flared. She was, in fact, becoming dizzy as he turned her again on the floor. She stumbled back and tripped over her skirts. He held her firm with a flex of his hand which felt like a hot brand through her layers of clothing.

"Do not ask me to apologize to those women," she huffed, but her temperature increased for a different reason. "They are terrible, terrible people. I only said what needed to be said. I am sorry if I caused you any embarrassment."

His fingers danced on her back as he wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I do not care one iota what those ignorant gossips think. Besides, I am not known around town as the most diplomatic of gentlemen. They can hardly expect my wife to be so."

Molly blinked up at him in surprise; she had expected a lecture. "Really?"

If she just leaned forward, her body would contact his from hip to chest while his strides would nudge between her legs. Could married people cause a scandal? Her stomach fluttered. She could not believe how her body betrayed her. She was supposed to be indifferent to him, or rather, cross enough that his appeal should have significantly diminished. Sherlock's brow furrowed as he peered down at her with a blaze in his eyes.

"The rumor around town is we are a love match," he murmured as he studied her face, "that we were swept away by our feelings. So, it would make sense that you are like myself in that way."

"What way?" She breathed.

His lips twitched before he spoke. His eyes darkened as his pupils seemed to expand.

"Passionate."

Molly wished she had more experience with men. She was so confused by him. In these moments with what appeared to be heat in his eyes, she could swear he felt something for her or at least, desired her in some small measure. Yet his harsh words echoed in her ears. He did not want to keep her, he did not have feelings for her, he would be glad when they parted ways.

The music ended then. Sherlock did not immediately release her from his hold.

"Sherlock," she whispered. "I think it is time we annul this marriage."

His chin snapped back. "Do you?"

She swallowed. It hurt to speak those words but she knew it was the right course of action. She could not continue to muddle her way through their confusing interactions and expect to come out unscathed. As it was, she would be somewhat heartbroken when they parted. She had seen glimmers of what life could be like with him and wanted more than what he seemed willing to give.

"Don't you?"

"No," His eyelids fluttered. "What are you going to do? How will you support yourself?"

She lifted her shoulders. "Those are not questions you need to concern yourself with anymore. I am no longer sick. I can take care of myself."

Sherlock did not have a rejoinder. Instead, he finally relinquished his grasp and swept an arm towards the hall doors.

"It is late. We can discuss this more tomorrow," he mumbled.

"But-"

"Now is not the time or place, Molly. Please, Wiggins awaits with the carriage. Would you mind very much heading that way while I say my goodbyes?"

Again, the look on his face was perplexing. He was flushed, flustered and seemed to shift on his feet as if he had drank one too many cups of punch. Molly sighed.

"Yes, you are right," she agreed, but grabbed his arm and squeezed it as she made a point of looking directly into his eyes. "We will speak more about this tomorrow, though?"

His chest raised with a heavy breath.

"Yes, yes, of course."

* * *

Sherlock turned from Molly and headed towards where Mycroft and Anthea shook hands with various townsfolk as they prepared to depart. He clenched his teeth. Molly wanted to be free of him. He did not blame her as his clumsy attempts to put his brother in his place had caused her offense. He balled his hands into fists. More time. He needed more time as he had not yet figured out how Molly fit in his life. Mycroft could approve an annulment overnight and she would be free leave his house in a matter of days. The thought made his stomach turn.

More time . . .

He had to make annulment an impossibility.

He needed to seduce his wife.


	11. Chapter 11

Molly pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to stave off the chill of the evening air. Wiggins had slung the folding leather roof over the carriage and clipped up the drapes but a slight breeze whistled between the numerous gaps. She could not wait to get back to Ash Street. She would love a cup of tea and to swaddle herself with a blanket in front of the parlor hearth. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears brought on by the bitter-sweetness of that thought. Sherlock's house had become her home and she'd just told him she wanted to leave.

Her lids flew open as she felt the side of the carriage dip. It creaked in protest as someone climbed aboard. She crossed her ankles and drew her legs backwards as Sherlock stepped through the part in the drapes. He settled himself into the seat across from where she sat in the front quarter. His face was swathed in shadow, she could barely make out his expression. All she could see was the heavy set of his brow, the grim line of his mouth and the glint of his eyes as they flicked over her form.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to take so long," he apologized.

His fingers flexed and drummed on his knee as if he were anxious about something.

Molly licked her lips. "I-I do not think that much time passed."

She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Her posterior was beginning to go numb. The leather seats were stiff and cold. Something about the near blackness of the interior of the cabin made it seem even frostier.

"You sound as if you are cold," Sherlock observed.

"I'm f-f-fine," she replied.

A dark crease appeared between his already brooding brows.

"Come," he held out his hand. "Sit with me."

She drew in a shuddering breath. "Really, I a-am fine."

He cursed under his breath. "Molly, don't be ridiculous. We have a half-hour journey before we arrive home. I do not want you to get sick again. So, please, would you join me so that I may keep you warm?"

Molly pursed her lips. Why did he always have to phrase things so that he sounded as if he was ordering her about, even when he deigned to ask? With an exasperated sigh, she stood but the carriage chose that moment to jerk into motion. She was thrown her off balance, pitched towards Sherlock and landed in his lap with her hands on his chest. He managed to catch her but instead of moving her to the seat next to him, he clutched her hip and knee and scooted her closer so that she was right up against his torso.

"This is not necessary!" She bit out.

She could see his face much better at this close proximity. His thick, dark hair had relaxed over the course of the evening and curled over his forehead. His skin almost glowed in the sliver of moonlight that gently bathed his handsome features. He ran a tongue over his teeth and for a moment she thought he was going to scold her again but his sculpted lips just twitched before he spoke.

"It's necessary," he mumbled.

He reached around her, his hands skimmed her back as he grasped the edges of her shawl and pulled the fabric up over her shoulders. Once she was covered again, she felt his fingers on the side of her neck. With the barest insistence, he urged her head onto his collar. She stiffened.

"Must you always be so belligerent?" He sighed.

She snorted against his neck. "Must you?"

"Apparently," he muttered, his breaths fanned her hair.

Despite her misgivings, Sherlock's warm body offered a bit of respite from the cold. In fact, being in his arms was heavenly. Molly closed her eyes as the gentle bump and sway of the carriage lulled her into a sort of trance. His fingers stirred on her neck and absentmindedly stroked the flesh at her nape. He was so warm, it was as if she cuddled with a hot water bottle. As she breathed in his scent, she detected just a hint of his cologne; a mix of woodsy lemon, musk and faint spices. She knew she flirted with lunacy. She knew this closeness with him was all sorts of ill-advised but she coveted it like nothing she had ever desired.

The wheels of the carriage lurched over a bump in the road, jostling them in their seat. Sherlock shifted beneath her and then unexpectedly, the atmosphere in the carriage altered. She could distinctly hear each of his inhalations as they deepened. Every renewal expanded his chest beneath her fingertips. His left hand tensed on her thigh while the right stilled on the back of her neck. His hairs tickled her cheek as he turned his head slightly. The weightlessness of Molly's limbs quickly receded and she became aware of nearly every inch of her body. She swallowed. She did not know how to deal with this strain in her being, except that she felt as if it required a balm. Tentatively, she raised her head and found herself staring into the glittering depths of her husband's eyes.

"Molly," he whispered raggedly.

Sherlock's hand dropped from her neck and squeezed her shoulder. She was so close to him, his breaths feathered across her lips. His eyes kept flicking up and down.

"Molly, open your mouth for me," he ground out.

Her insides flushed. Warm tingles spread out from her belly. With a nervous inhalation, she parted her lips. He leaned closer and hesitated. Then, he nudged her nose with his, invited her to turn her mouth upwards and covered it with his own. The moment his plush lips closed over hers, need rampaged through her and she gripped his sides tightly. She felt his muscles flex beneath her fingers as he leaned even further into the kiss and plunged his tongue into her mouth.

She gasped against his invasion. It was so raw, so unexpected. However, she did not dislike it. In fact, the stroke of his wet flesh over hers kindled a fire in that unmentionable place between her legs. It was as if she tangled with a demon's tongue. His caresses and the way he probed was a sort of wickedness. She wanted more. So much more.

"Molly," his lips left hers and skimmed her jaw. "Dear God, Molly, you make me . . . _want._ "

Sherlock tasted the flesh of her neck. A groan vibrated his chest.

She swallowed. "You inspire that in me as well."

He lifted his head. His eyes bored into hers. His hips moved and she noticed a difference in the feel of his lap under her seat. Her face burned with a scorching heat. He was aroused. She knew enough from medical training to know a man's member engorged when he was in that state. Oh, this was not even a little bit good.

"Do you know what it means for me to . . . want . . . you?" He asked gruffly.

The carriage bounced over another uneven patch of road. The drapes swayed and light from a nearby lamp briefly illuminated his face. His beauty stole her breath. Molly pressed her lips together and nodded. She was a doctor after all.

"I am aware of what h-happens between a man and a woman when they . . . they . . . erm, c-copulate."

Sherlock studied her face intensely. "From textbooks, I imagine? You have no practical experience?"

She grimaced. She felt so awkward.

"I was waiting for marriage."

He bunched a handful of her skirts in his grasp. She could not resist looking at him again. His eyes softened around the edges even though the intensity in their depths increased. He leaned closer.

"You are married now, Molly Holmes," he murmured.

Oh, Lord, the things his baritone voice did to her. She tried to quell her panting. Each breath felt hot and damp leaving her lips. What was he recommending? Was he mad? She began to tremble. Her insides clenched.

"Are you suggesting w-we . . . ah, become intimately acquainted?"

She briefly thought he was going to shake his head but he licked his lips. His eyes constricted.

"Yes."

Her breath caught. How could one little word wreak such havoc on her body?

"N-Now?" She stuttered, her face was on fire.

"In this carriage?" He raised his brows. "My dear wife, I am not such an animal that I would deflower you here and now. However tempting it would be to rearrange your skirts and bury myself in you, I do have some modicum of self-control."

Molly quivered all over. "So, then you want t-to . . . to . . ."

He sighed noisily. "When we arrive home, I would like to take you to my room so that I may _take_ you, understand?"

Sherlock's deep voice reverberated through her every fibre. He closed his eyes briefly as if afflicted. His arousal seemed to grow more noticeable under her bottom.

"B-But," she stammered, she felt as if she were going to faint, "we are supposed to get an annulment. We cannot, that is, we should not engage in marital activities."

He huffed as he looked at her again. "Hang what we're supposed to do. I never do what I'm supposed to do and neither do you, Doctor."

Sherlock's head tilted, his hand reached up to her face and he studied her mouth intently. He brushed a thumb over her lips as his voice dropped an octave. "Do you not want to cast off these shackles? Do you not want to reject all these rules society places upon us and give in to your desires?"

She opened her mouth to make an impassioned denial but her words died on her lips. His gaze was so full of longing, his were round and expectant. She swallowed. Oh, good God, she had no idea what to do.

* * *

Nerves assailed Molly as she stepped into 221 Ash Street after sharing the most tense carriage ride of her life. She slipped out of her shoes and turned quickly to face Sherlock who watched her with a scowl as he divested himself of his great coat and shoes. She swallowed and glanced around, unsure of what to do with herself. Should she hang up her shawl? Offer to make tea? She felt her face warm again. When she looked up, he was practically upon her. He grasped her covering, whipped it off her shoulders and flung it over the balustrade. Then, he cupped her face and swooped down to kiss her hungrily. Her neck strained with the forcefulness of his embrace.

"Will you come upstairs with me?" His breaths were heavy.

She steadied herself on his torso as her chest rose and fell. She was still so confused. It was all coming at her like a runaway locomotive.

"I-I don't know. I can't help thinking this is terrible idea."

"Terrible?" His brows twitched.

"Or w-wonderful," she whispered. "I don't know."

He ran his fingers down her arm and clasped her hand in his. Then he tugged her towards the stairs. She told herself she would go so far as the top of the steps and then part ways with him but outside Sherlock's room, he fell on her again, pinning her against the wall with another searing kiss. Her hair came loose. Curls escaped and fell around her neck. She anchored her arms around his neck. Her entire being felt aflame. Her thoughts were a jumble.

"Molly," he stilled his hands on her waist as he searched her face anxiously. "Christ, you are shaking like a leaf. Are you okay?"

"Yes, I-I am just not sure of what to do. I don't want to disappoint you."

He frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. You tie me in knots. That is about as far from disappointment as I can imagine."

He backed her slowly into his room and kicked the door closed behind them. Then he bumped her into the bed. His room was much larger than hers with a green and black wallpaper and black wainscoting. It was very much a man's room with its heavy, dark furniture. Her eyes flitted to his as he loosened his bowtie and tugged it from around his neck. He deposited that, with his blazer over the nightstand and began working on his cuffs. When he had pushed sleeves of his black shirt up his forearms, he stopped the dissemination of his clothing.

"I do not know what you have been told of sexual relations, Molly," he murmured as he stared down at her. "I am going to touch you, everywhere, outside . . . inside. You will be different afterwards."

She could only bow her head in agreement. Oh, God, it was decided then. She was alone with him, in his room, and practically on his bed. She was going to have relations with him. Her belly quivered at the realization of just how easily she had been persuaded. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers softly as his fingers began working on the pearls at the back of her dress. She felt a tightening of her loins as each pearl popped apart and the bodice loosened around her midsection. The dress whispered to the floor followed shortly thereafter by her underthings. Cool air prickled her skin and she shivered.

He sucked in a breath as he looked down her naked body. His hand curved around her breast and he rubbed a thumb over her nipple. Her legs felt like jelly.

"Mm, give me a moment to dispense with my clothing. I'll . . . warm you."

Sherlock peeled back the bed linens and she scooted backwards on the bed. His hands flew over the buttons of his shirt and the clasps of his trousers and in mere moments, he was as naked as she. She chewed her lip as he covered her body with his own. All the sensations Molly felt at once were overwhelming. His skin scalded. He was hard where she was soft. Hairs on his chest and abdomen gently abraded the sensitive flesh of her breasts and stomach. Then there was his shaft, impossibly large and jutting brazenly against her hip and along her belly.

"My word," she choked out, "are they all that large? H-How does it fit?"

Sherlock dropped his head to her shoulder as he laughed. "It just does. Do not fret. I will ensure you're ready."

"H-How?"

He raised his head again and he shifted one side. A dark look washed across his face. She felt one of his hands move lower.

"Spread your legs," he murmured.

Her face burned. Molly felt so clueless. He lowered his head to kiss her quickly. She tentatively parted her legs and then he pushed them open further. She closed her eyes and nearly jumped off the bed when one of his long fingers parted her folds and stroked over her sex. The sensation was like a strike of lightning. Her inner walls clenched tightly.

"Unh," she cried.

That delicious friction was what she had been missing all her life. He rubbed up and down over a particularly sensitive spot and her back arched. She clutched the bedding as he continued. The stimulation was like the static spark of wool being rubbed together until she almost felt as if her hair stood on end. He kept at it until she writhed. Every so often her hips would buck. When she thought she would almost explode, his finger slipped lower and penetrated her body. His mouth stifled a cry as he withdrew his digit and pushed it back inside. With a swift shift of his hips, he raised himself up over her and dipped his head to close his mouth over her nipple. He swirled his tongue over one, then the other as his fingers continued their ministrations.

"Sherlock, um, oh God," she panted as she dug her fingers into his back.

His fingers felt slick between her legs. His breaths were loud in her ears. He withdrew his hand, groaned and settled his weight on top of her until his straining member pushed between her legs.

"Molly," he ground out, "I am nearly undone. I will try to be gentle, but you are very small and this may, um, . . . _will_ probably hurt."

"It's fine, it's fine," she almost thrashed beneath him. "I need . . . you."

Her womanhood ached between her thighs. When he removed his fingers, she had felt bereft. She wanted to be filled again. As if reading her mind, he dragged her back a bit so she was better positioned under his body. He guided her legs up and open. She slipped her hands under his arms and wrapped them around his back as his first probe pushed apart her folds. She sucked in a breath as she found herself stricken by the moment. It was really happening. The blunt girth of his head as it sought entry was all too visceral. Sherlock was going to be inside her and he was going to breach her maidenhead. She quavered as the pressure built and he pushed into her body. He inched in slowly and she knew there was no going back. They were coming together.

She dropped her head back against the bed and bit her lip as he advanced into her body with a texture like a smooth rope. The fit was so tight, she could feel the imperfect details of him as he slid along her inner walls, stretched and filled her. Then, he encountered some resistance and hesitated.

"I am sorry for this, Molly," he whispered.

He paused, repositioned his hips and with a quick thrust, cleaved through her virginity and embedded himself deep into her womb. She inhaled sharply and cursed. The pain was searing, like the sudden slice of a knife. She clung to him as the throb of it subsided.

"Are you alright, my darling?" He whispered in her ear.

"Y-Yes."

It was then she could appreciate what had happened. He had staked his claim and she felt fully possessed by him. So greedy was her sex, it sucked onto him as he moved. He shuddered as he withdrew.

"God, Molly, this feels . . . so . . . good," he mumbled.

He plunged back into her depths and groaned. She tilted her hips and lifted her legs to take more of him in. With a grunt, he started stroking in and out of her. Each return was easier as he became wet with her arousal. Her hips bore the weight of him over and over as the bed jerked around them and the pace increased. Soon, an unbearable tension built. She almost drifted out of herself and had to focus on that one insatiable point of need that begged for slaking to keep her grounded.

Her limbs weakened as she got lost in the sensations overwhelming her core. Then, as if slipping from a wet boulder, she felt a falling sensation and her internals burst into a torrent of ripples like she had plummeted into a pool of water. She clenched around him and felt another wave of pulses. It was such a release, such overwhelming satisfaction, that she went almost completely limp.

"Uum," she moaned, "oh, Lord . . ."

Sherlock shuddered as the spasms overtook her body. Then, he with a few last, rough penetrations, he slammed back inside her and tensed. She felt his member stiffen, then pulse very much like she had and push something along its length several times. His hips bucked and she knew he must have reached his end because he softened slightly.

"Molly," he whispered. "Molly."

They lay there for several minutes recovering their strength. Molly almost laughed maniacally as she came to appreciate what they had done. She had just experienced something decadent and addictive and she would never be the same.

Sherlock, her husband, had taken her virginity. The thought made her eyes roll back in her head.

She twined her fingers in his soft curls and kissed the side of his neck as a dull, distant pain replaced the pulsations he had created.

"How are you?" Sherlock asked when he rose over her again.

She rubbed her lips together. She felt bashful as he gazed down at her.

"I am well," she said softly. "Perhaps a little sore."

He nodded and kissed the end of her nose. "It will not hurt the next time."

Molly's eyes widened. "Next time?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Yes, next time."

She shook her head. "Sherlock, we are supposed to be getting an annulment . . ."

His brows drew together. "We're not getting an annulment. It is no longer an option."

Molly's moth fell open. "B-But, this doesn't have to change that. We just don't tell anyone . . ."

"Molly, I just made you my wife," he growled. "I spilled my seed inside you."

He inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. Wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.

"Forget about an annulment, Molly Holmes. You are not going anywhere."


	12. Chapter 12

John skipped towards of 221 Ash Street with a grin on his face. He stopped just at the base of the steps and looked up into the night sky. The stars were as bright as he'd ever seen them. They cut a swath across the heavens like a twinkling seam of diamonds. He inhaled the crisp night air and chuckled. What a night. What a glorious night!

Mary Morstan. Her name echoed through his mind again.

He had walked her home from the dance to the side entrance off Reichenbach's Butcher Shop that led to her flat. There, he had kissed her briefly, not wanting to seem too ardent. Then she had leaned into the kiss and slipped her arms around his neck. He had almost lost himself in that moment. Mary was everything he had ever hoped to find in a woman; intelligent, compassionate, principled, opinionated and beautiful, so beautiful. In that moment, he knew he would ask her to marry him. She was the one. She was his soul mate.

With a spring in his step, he bounded up the treads and opened the front door of his home. The first thing he saw was Mrs. Hudson pace by him in the front foyer with her hand to her face. Then, he heard voices - loud, upset voices. One, a deep baritone and the other, a rather peeved higher, female's intonation.

John stepped into the house and shut the door. "Mrs. Hudson? What is the commotion about?"

The older woman stopped in her tracks. Her lip trembled as she looked his way.

"Oh, John, thank the Lord. I don't know what's happened. There was this Godawful thump which shook the whole house. I thought the wardrobe in Mr. Holmes' room fell over but then, they just started shouting at each other. Oh, I imagine he's been his usual self and said the wrong thing," she clucked her tongue. "What a shame. They were getting along so well."

John turned his head to better understand what he was hearing. Both voices filtered down from the upper floor. They were together, in Sherlock's room.

He blinked rapidly. "Sherlock and Molly . . . how long had they been alone, up there, before the, erm, argument?"

Mrs. Hudson pressed her lips together and raised her brows. "Some time, Dr. Watson. I heard them come in at nine-thirty but I –ah- well, I thought it was best if I kept to my rooms and gave them their privacy."

John coughed and cleared his throat. "Th-They needed privacy?"

She went red in the face. "They are married after all."

He shakily doffed his hat and hung it up. He heard the slam of a door crashing open and hitting a wall.

"Out! Get out of here right this instant!" Molly shouted.

John's eyes widened as he looked at Mrs. Hudson. "I better go up there."

He took the steps two at a time until he found himself taking in the sight of a half-naked Sherlock collecting clothes as they flew from his room.

"You cannot order me about in my own house!" He returned gruffly.

"It's my home as well, isn't it?" Molly declared. "Whether I like it or not!"

Sherlock dodged his belt as it flew by his head. "B-B-But these are my chambers. Where am I to sleep?"

Finally, Molly appeared in the doorway wrapped in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns. Its hem puddled on the floor at her feet, her hair was in disarray and she was flushed. She pointed her finger emphatically down the hall as she spoke.

"Over that way, there is a perfectly serviceable spare bedroom," she stated. "It's quite comfortable."

"Then why don't you sleep there since you are so offended by me?" Sherlock asked angrily.

Molly placed her hands on her hips and glowered at her husband. "I am the one who has been wronged. I am not going to cede ground and scuttle off like one of those cat-like, bandit creatures one sees rooting around the rubbish bins."

"Raccoons, you mean?" He huffed.

She scrunched her nose up. "Yes, like a raccoon. I am your wife, in every legal definition of the word, Mr. Holmes. Since you are so keen to remain married, you are going to learn exactly what it means to keep me. To start, I have decided that this is going to be where I sleep and that you are not welcome."

John looked to Sherlock. He had an incredulous expression on his face. He squared his shoulders and began donning his shirt.

"You cannot keep me from here. I-I could physically remove you!" He said as he fumbled with his buttons.

Molly's eyes narrowed. She folded her arms over her chest. Her eyes slid sideways and met John's gaze. He flicked his fingers up in a gesture of greeting and nodded awkwardly.

"You are welcome to try but I would advise against it. I've become fast friends with one of the constable's wives. If the spare room is not to your liking, perhaps you would prefer alternate accommodations at the local detachment or even the Pen? I've heard marvelous things about the federal prison. You know quite a few fellows down there, do you not? You are responsible for supplying that facility with half its population, or so I have been told."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again but John reached forward and grasped his arm.

"Best not speak anymore, Sherlock," he recommended.

"John, this is none of your business," he spat.

John raised his brows and gave him a hard stare. "It will be if you put your hands on Molly."

Sherlock's head snapped up and he frowned. He looked to Molly and returned his gaze to John. He stumbled back and shook his head. His face went very pale.

"I would never do that," he said with a strain in his voice. "Molly, I would never hurt you. Forgive me, it was an empty threat."

Molly swallowed. John watched her eyes appear to glisten. She looked on the verge of tears.

"Come, Sherlock," John urged. "Come away."

Sherlock shook him off. "Molly! Molly, I would never hurt you. You have to believe me-"

A tear slipped down her cheek. "You already have."

It was as if someone punched his friend in the gut. His face contorted in a in a mask of pain. His eyes went soft around the edges. John collected Sherlock's socks and belt and tugged him away. Sherlock's head pivoted limply, transfixed by his wife until John pulled him down the first few treads of the stairway. He came to life halfway to the foyer when the door to his room slammed shut with a bang and wrenched away. He snatched his remaining articles of clothing from John's hands.

"What time is it?" He muttered.

John sighed and peaked at his pocket watch. "Eleven-thirty."

"Perfect," he replied bitterly.

"Wh-Why?"

"I am going down to Cumberland Saloon. Things should just be getting interesting."

Sherlock plunked himself on the oak hall tree and jerked on his socks. He reached for his boots.

John cursed. "Really, tonight? Christ! Do you think that is a good idea in your present frame of mind?"

Brunette curls bounced as Sherlock's head came up. He had a deep furrow in his brow. His eyes were constricted angrily. He yanked the laces tight on his boot.

"Do you have a better suggestion? I feel the need to expend some energy. In my present frame of mind, that will involve either guns or fists."

Mrs. Hudson made a sound from the parlor. "Ooh, best take him to the pub, John."

John threw his hands up.

"I have to babysit him, do I?" He called. "Why do I always have to babysit him?"

Sherlock stood up with a snort and whirled into his jacket. "I am not the one you should be concerned about."

"No, I understand that. You broke three of John Stapleton's ribs last time. I'm worried about anyone who steps into the ring with you."

Sherlock cracked his knuckles. "As you should be."

* * *

"Whiskey, please."

John glanced back as he heard another roar from the back of the Cumberland Saloon. Sherlock was on his second fight and winning, as usual. However, the man knew how to work the crowd. Although Sherlock could easily win most fights, he always let his opponent land a few hits to make it appear as if they weren't hopelessly outmatched. The tavern was very crowded that evening, which made sense considering it was the end of the May Day festivities and there was close to a thousand extra people in town.

"Sorry, Dr. Watson, we're all outta whiskey," came the rejoinder from the burly barkeep. "Would bourbon be alright?"

John nodded. "Yeah, why not? It's pretty much the same thing, isn't it?"

The bar tender smirked. "Don't let any Americans hear you say that."

John flipped the keep and coin, grabbed the generous tumbler full of bourbon and headed back towards the ring at the rear of the saloon. He had to elbow his way through the raucous crowd to find his way to where Constable Lestrade leaned against a counter and watched the fight in progress.

"How's he doing?" John asked.

Lestrade twitched his brows. "How do you think? That poor bugger has no idea what he's up against."

The boxing ring at the back of Cumberland Saloon barely resembled one. It was but a small area separated from the rest of the space by a barrier of planks. It looked more like a stockade pen than an arena where men fought. Sherlock faced away from them, his upper half bare, having discarded his shirt. He wasn't as large as his opponent but something about the lean musculature of his back and the rippling of his flesh as he moved about made him appear lethal. Perhaps a cage designed for an animal suited Sherlock Holmes.

"I think he's weary of this fight," Lestarde shouted over the cacophony of jeers and whistles. "That big fella hasn't landed a clean hit yet."

John watched the large man lurch forward, his heavy footfall could be felt through the groaning floorboards even as the bar patrons moved around them. Sherlock's lateral back muscles flexed as he tensed, ready to deliver his blow, and then he unleashed. In a rapid-fire succession, Sherlock rounded with his right fist and caught the behemoth just at the base of his ribs. He followed that up with a left uppercut to his jaw and finally, slammed his right into the man's face when he doubled over, splitting open his cheek. For a moment, Sherlock's opponent teetered and a hush fell over the crowd. Then, like the falling of a tree, the man swayed forward and slammed down at Sherlock's feet. Before the dust kicked up from between the boards could settle, the crowd erupted.

Sherlock barely acknowledged their fervent response. He turned around and grabbed a towel slung over the side of the ring. His face still held a deep scowl. He wiped some sweat from his brow and leaned over the railing, heaving. John set his drink down.

"I will be right back, Constable," he murmured.

"Call me Greg, I'm not on duty. If I was, I'd have to haul half these people down to the station for drunk and disorderly behavior. Not to mention, illegal gambling."

John turned and twisted a quizzical brow. "Didn't you bet on this fight?"

Greg's lips pulled down at the corners. "Erm, no, of course not."

"Mm, hmm. Right."

John smiled and then hurried up to where Sherlock rested. "Are you quite done? It's nearly one am."

"One more," Sherlock rasped.

He didn't look up. His head hung with his hair spilling forward. His shoulders rose and fell with each deep inhalation. Behind him, a group of men removed the unconscious giant from the ring.

"You're exhausted," John chided. "You should quit while you're ahead."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "I am fine. One more match. You are not required to stay."

John exhaled a loud breath. "Damn, Sherlock, you're going to get yourself hurt."

Something changed in the atmosphere of the saloon then. A murmur went through the crowd. Then a man near their age hopped the barrier. He was of a similar build and height to Sherlock, but his black hair was closely cropped to his head. He smiled slickly and doffed his shirt. On closer inspection, John decided he was a slightly smaller stature than his friend.

"Seems you have another challenger," John muttered.

Sherlock raised a brow. "Indeed."

He studied his new opponent closely then stood up and stretched out his broad shoulders and back.

"Preening fool. I will dispense of him in short order. Did he not watch any of my other fights? I outweigh him by forty pounds and have a two inch advantage in my reach," he twitched his brows. "Also, I'm unbeaten in this ring."

John laughed. "And you're modest to boot."

The saloon owner, Robert McDunn, smacked his hand against one of the railings and called for attention. "Alright you lot, our challenger is James, just arrived in town today. He's going to be teaching up at Columbian College. Now he says he was a collegiate athlete back in Ontario-"

John laughed as a chorus of drunken boos erupted from the audience. There were still so many in New Westminster who disapproved of British Columbia joining Canada and being governed by the distant parliament out in Ontario. The challenger, James, only smiled wider and danced around the ring, practicing a few punches.

"Settle down, settle down!" Mr. McDunn roared. "Now, that's not how we greet people here in the royal city. Let's give him a warm welcome. He says he can fight."

A reluctant, half-assed round of cheers sounded throughout the room.

Mr. McDunn gestured a thumbs up. "That's better! So, now we're gonna give you all our odds. We favor Mr. Holmes, of course, our resident champion, but bet on James here and get three dollars for every dollar you wager. Mr. Holmes remains at a dollar and twenty-five cents."

Those wanting to bet were given a few minutes to make their wagers. Sherlock and his opponent circled each other in the ring. John felt a bit of a tremor in his hands. They shared a similar analytical manner of gazing upon one another. John knew in that moment that this fight would be different.

Sherlock attacked first with a quick jab that James dodged easily. It went like that for about a minute or two. Then, almost out of nowhere, James made a funny little move almost like a stuttered dance step and popped Sherlock on the chin. The larger man stepped back a bit stunned and shook his head. John recognized the tense set of his face and the bunching of his shoulders as he went into battle mode.

Again and again, Sherlock missed the mark and suffered shots to his abdomen and face in return. The spectators went wild. The shouting, jeering, and cheering became so loud, the whole building seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork. John could see Sherlock beginning to fatigue as blow after blow threw him off balance. James grinned the entire time, never removing his eyes from his mark as his fists stung time and again. One particularly well placed first hit Sherlock just above the eye causing a cut to open up. Blood ran down his temple and over his lid which began to swell.

"Good God, Sherlock," John whispered. "What have you got yourself into?"

"Oy, John," Greg shouted. "This ain't going his way, is it?"

Sherlock wavered on his feet and stumbled. James moved in, licking his lips as he revelled in his pending victory. John rubbed a hand over his face. He wanted to look away but couldn't. Fear made his stomach tighten. He was almost certain in that moment that Sherlock was not only going to lose the fight, but be grievously injured in the process.

However, he was a man of endless surprises and produced one of most unexpected happenings John had the privilege to witness. As James hovered over Sherlock's nearly folded form, Sherlock planted his foot, expanded upwards like wind catching a sheet on a clothesline and then drove his fist downwards across his challenger's face. His left fist came up, caught James square in the chin, and the fight was over. James' eyes lolled back in his head and his knees buckled. Then he slunk to the floor in a heap.

What followed was a vacuum of sound for a few brief seconds as the entire saloon stared in awe. Then like the in-rush of a tide, insanity flooded the room again and the howl of voices became a deafening thunder. People rattled their chairs and screamed in release.

Sherlock had won the fight.

* * *

"What was that, Sherlock?"

John gazed anxiously at his friend as he leaned over his mount. Sherlock groaned as Redbeard slipped over some loose gravel and jolted him in the saddle on the hill as they made their way towards Ash Street.

"What was what, John?" He wheezed.

"The fight. How did you do that? You were finished."

Sherlock frowned, then grimaced in pain as he looked at John. "I was not finished, I was losing. There is a difference. I had to change my tactics and sell my opponent a story of defeat. His fight analytics exceeded my own. He seemed to know every move I was going to make before I even knew myself. I do not believe he has only just arrived in New Westminster. There is more to him than meets the eye, definitely more. This man has watched me fight before and catalogued my moves."

John sucked in a breath. "But why?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as he rubbed his neck. "He wanted to defeat me, in public and in a big way. He was emotionally invested in that outcome. He . . . needed it. I don't know why. I have never encountered an individual like him."

John nodded. "He was definitely a strange man. James was his name? He's a teacher?"

"Not just a teacher, John. He's the new physics instructor at Columbian College, Professor James Moriarty."


	13. Chapter 13

Molly stumbled to a stop at the sight of Sherlock sleeping in his favorite chair wrapped in an old quilt in the early morning light. She blinked a couple of times as she tried to interpret what she gazed upon. His hair was an erratic den of snakes coiling atop his head. His cheek and bottom lip were swollen. His right eye was puffy and stained blue and purple beneath a cut that traversed his right brow like a lightning strike. Her breath hitched and her lip started trembling. What had happened to him? She hiked up the dressing gown which she had adopted as her own, and hurried to his side.

She shakily held her hand under his nose and then let out a quiet sigh of relief. He breathed. She swallowed and pressed two fingers to his pulse just under his jaw. It lumbered lazily beneath their tips but was steady and strong. Before she could pull away, vise-like fingers closed over her wrist. Then another hand shot out, captured her around the waist and pulled her to his lap.

"I am very much alive, Mrs. Holmes," he murmured.

She wiggled on his lap. "Stop calling me that."

Her face warmed as something twitched beneath her seat. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, well, eye. His right lid was too inflamed. Still, she was riveted by the intensity in his gaze and the way he searched her face.

"Why not?" He asked in a low timber. "It is your name, after all."

Molly lifted her chin. "Yes, but the way you say it makes me s-sound like a p-possession or an extension of yourself. I am my own person."

He flicked his tongue out over his lips. It was an odd kind of habit he had, as if it prepared him to say something he knew would not be well-received.

"Not according to the law," his voice rumbled. "You are mine, Molly."

The air that left her nostrils felt scorching hot. His pronouncement gave her a little thrill while at the same time, made her seethe. She inhaled deeply to calm her nerves and shook her head slowly. Her voice quavered but when she spoke, it resounded with an undercurrent of steel.

"I don't care about any law," she bit out. "No law written can dictate what I feel in my heart or what freedom means to me."

His eyelid on his uninjured eye flickered. He laid his hand over her heart gently. His fingers and thumb stretched from shoulder to shoulder across her chest. She labored to breath under his touch.

"Do you really feel free in here, Molly?" He asked, a frown set into his brow. "Because I don't. I have not felt my own person since the moment I first laid eyes on you."

Molly's lips parted in surprise. "Sherlock-"

A voice interrupted their exchange.

"Mr. Holmes, are you awake yet . . . oh, Molly! Oh, I'm sorry."

Molly suppressed a frustrated sigh as she looked over her shoulder at the older woman. While she doubted Sherlock would exaggerate on what he meant by his words, she still would have liked to hear what else he would have said. He removed his hand from where it had been spread over her chest. She attempted to scoot from his lap but his hand lingered on her waist. She sighed inwardly and relaxed. She didn't really want to get up so she stayed. She was still mad at him but desperately craved a bit of contact.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Hudson," she said with a half-smile.

"Morning, Molly," Mrs. Hudson returned as she halted and smacked a hand to her collar. "Oh, dear God, Mr. Holmes, what have you done to yourself?"

"Do not concern yourself, Mrs. Hudson," he growled. "I am quite well."

"Did you lose a fight then?" She asked. "Imagine that! You've never lost a match before."

Molly frowned and tilted her head as she looked at Sherlock. "Fight? Match? What is she talking about? Did . . . d-did you do this to yourself?"

He looked down a moment as he appeared to try to determine something. His gaze levelled again with a slight look of guilt in his one good eye.

"Of course I did not do this to myself," he replied. "I box on occasion, Molly. An opponent did this to me."

She pursed her lips. He went boxing after they had their row. She didn't know what to think of that except that she was a little mad at him for getting himself injured.

"I don't understand men," Molly muttered. "Unhand me. I no longer feel sorry for you."

Sherlock loosened his hold as his eyes darkened. "I did not ask for, nor do I need, your commiseration."

She pushed herself off his lap and stood up. She grabbed his chin and jerked his face from side to side to better inspect his injuries.

"Yes, I know, what a ridiculous inclination," she huffed. "Pity about your appearance, though. I might have been able to stitch that gash up nice last night had you awakened me. Now you won't be nearly as pretty."

He glowered at her. "Ah, yes, well, I beg your forgiveness. I know how much you like my face. You travelled half-way around the world for it, after all."

Mrs. Hudson made a high pitched sound as she inhaled quickly. "Mr. Holmes!"

Molly shoved his chin back as she let go. She wanted to slap him. He was such a disagreeable man. She couldn't believe that less than a day ago they had lain together and she had given herself to him. Moreover, she couldn't understand how breathless she still felt after having just sat on his lap for a couple of minutes. He seemed to be breathing a bit heavy as well. Then there was the look on his face, so . . . incensed. No, that was not the correct word. Roused? If she didn't know better, she would say he liked when she asserted herself.

"I am going to make tea," Molly said to Mrs. Hudson and turned towards the kitchen, her face growing warmer with each passing second.

"I take mine with a teaspoon of honey," Sherlock drawled before she stepped from the room.

She whirled, aghast that he would expect such a nicety after their exchange. "Oh, do you?"

He raised his chin ever so slightly. "Yes, I prefer it a bit . . . _sweet_."

Molly took a step back towards him, her ire barely contained. "Mm, hmm, and how long should I let your beverage steep or are you one of those who allows it brew for too long and become bitter?"

Sherlock nostrils flared and he curled his fingers on the arms of his chair. Then, he insolently raked her body with his languid perusal.

"No, bitter isn't any good," he dropped his voice an octave, his eye flashed, "but strong, I like. Some character is to my taste."

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. "My word, are we still talking about tea?"

Sherlock leaned his head in her direction and twitched his brows.

"I was educating Molly on how I take my refreshment," he replied before returning his focus back to her. "A man's wife ought to learn how to please him."

"Oh!" Molly's face scrunched in anger. "Y-You are an unmitigated horse's arse, Sherlock Holmes."

She spun on her heel and stormed away just as a very confused looking John stepped into the parlor.

* * *

Sherlock watched the ends of the dressing gown Molly wore follow her around the corner. He pressed his lips together. Once again, he had managed to alienate his wife when all he really wanted to do was throw her over his shoulder and take her upstairs to his room. He wrinkled his nose. Actually, it wasn't his room. It was her room. He needed to find a way to reign his knee-jerk reactions in. He hated to see her upset.

"Mr. Holmes, you are hardly going to endear yourself to your wife carrying on in such a manner," Mrs. Hudson clucked.

"Who says I am trying to endear myself?" He snapped.

John snorted as he strolled into the room in his nightwear. He and Mrs. Hudson exchanged glances and then both laughed aloud.

"Oh, don't act like you know me," Sherlock huffed as he pushed himself up from his chair.

He wasn't sure what creaked and groaned, himself or the chair, as he heaved himself to his feet. Every inch of him ached.

He looked towards the rear of the parlor where Molly had disappeared into the kitchen. His fingers twitched at his sides as he tried to decide what to do. Getting beaten nearly senseless the previous evening had done little to diminish the memories of what it had been like to have her beneath him. He closed his eyes briefly as the sound of her cries echoed through his mind like their lovemaking was currently in progress. Damn his memory. It was a curse to be able to relive things as he could. He stepped in the direction of the kitchen before he even opened his eyes. He needed more of her, even if all he received was derision.

"Sherlock, before you, erm, go," John stopped him, "Lestrade had asked me to check in with you on our mystery woman. Have we come any closer to finding out who she is?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced at John. "No."

Mrs. Hudson looked up from where she collected Sherlock's boots and jacket. "Mystery woman? What's this? Another one of your cases?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock ran his fingers through his tangled curls, "though, I don't think you want to hear the details."

Her face blanched. "Oh, Lord, no. Murdered, was she?"

"It certainly appears that way," he muttered.

"Why is she a mystery?"

Sherlock twisted his brow. "Besides the murdered part?"

John shot Sherlock a look. "We haven't been able to determine who she is even though she seems to be a young white woman who was in fairly good health."

"Oh, sad, that is," Mrs. Hudson grimaced.

"Yes, sad," Sherlock muttered. "Sad! Yet no one seems to be missing this young lady. How can a girl like this disappear out of society and no one notices?"

Mrs. Hudson made an odd kind of a sound and stuck her lip out.

Sherlock frowned. "What? What is it? Spit it out!"

She waved a free hand. "Never mind, it's probably nothing."

John cleared his throat. "No, it's alright. What were you thinking, Mrs. Hudson?"

She took a deep breath. "Oh, well, you know, not everyone is part of good society, Mr. Holmes. There are certain professions which make it possible for a woman to go missing and no one would bother to report it. Her co-workers might be too scared to contact the police or assume she ran off with some bloke."

"You mean a prostitute?" Sherlock said dryly. "I had considered that but this woman was too . . . well groomed."

Mrs. Hudson laughed and covered her mouth. "Too well groomed? You haven't known many girls for hire, have you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock felt heat flood his face. "I have not but-"

John crossed his arms and snickered.

"Hmph, I'll defer to you, the great detective, then. However, you might be surprised to find out that the girls down at Madam Adler's are some of the most well-groomed young ladies you will ever meet. They're not dirty, sickly creatures at all. You probably wouldn't be able to pick one out if she passed by you on the street."

John barked a laugh. "Thank-you for the education, Mrs. Hudson. What do you think, Sherlock? Should we make some enquiries down there?"

Sherlock stared down his nose at them. "Madam Adler's, you say?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Don't tell me you've never met her in all your dealings with the underbelly of New Westminster!"

"Oh, he has," John smirked. "He just avoids her."

"Whenever possible," Sherlock muttered.

The older woman tittered a laugh. "Oh, my! I can understand that. She'd be quite taken with you. You're just the type she likes."

"And that is?"

Mrs. Hudson grinned. "Pretty. Although, not so much at present, mind!"

John held his sides as he laughed. "Then we should go today before your eye reopens. Maybe she won't find you so appealing."

"One can only hope," Sherlock mumbled. "Fine, we'll visit the brothel later."

He shuddered and made for the far parlor door. He was compelled to go after Molly. He wanted to catch her before she slipped upstairs again.

"Off to get tea, then?" John called after him.

Sherlock didn't respond. He just flicked his fingers up as pushed his way into the kitchen. His view was immediately on Molly as soon as he stepped into the room. The kettle in her hands rattled as she looked up with wide eyes as if surprised by his sudden appearance. Sherlock crossed the wooden floorboards quickly and steadied her grip.

"Careful," he said softly. "I would not like to see you scalded."

Molly shrugged him off and set the kettle down. "I can manage, thank-you."

Sherlock's gaze flicked down to the tray she had made up. There were four cups alongside the kettle. Next to one of the cups was a small pot of honey. He swallowed a stubborn lump.

"Molly," he rasped, a bit overcome, "forgive me. I d-did not mean for you to actually get me tea with honey. I was being facetious."

A furrow creased the space between her brows as she scowled at the tray. "Then you don't like honey?"

He grunted in frustration, then next thing he knew, he drew her into his arms. Her small lips separated as she gasped up at him. He couldn't help himself. She looked so charming drowning in his dressing gown with her cheeks flushed scarlet and her large brown eyes twinkling up at him. Her pink tongue darted out and wetted her lips. At the edge of his control, he dove down and kissed her like a starving man. Her lips came to life beneath his and opened as she threw her arms around his neck. She sighed like she tasted a dessert she liked. A deep groan of satisfaction rumbled through his body and he clutched her closer. She still wanted him, at least. He hadn't completely scared her off.

"Molly," he said huskily. "Christ, Molly, I want you so much. Forget the tea, let's go back up to my room."

Her hands dropped to his chest and an instant later, he was shoved back hard.

"No!" She cried. "I'm still upset with you."

She turned her chin up and stomped towards the door. She stopped, spun and shook her finger at him.

"And just to remind you, it's my room, so stay out! Good day, Mr. Holmes."


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. He cursed himself inwardly as Molly yanked open the door to exit the kitchen. He glanced again the silver tray of tea she left behind on the butcher block counters with the little pot of honey just for him. He felt as if he were trying to bail water with his bare hands. In fact, he knew he was just flailing like a drowning man. That's what he was, he thought as she prepared to leave, a man about to go under.

"Molly, wait," his voice sounded strangled. "P-Please wait."

His plea halted her flight but she did not turn around. Her shoulders hunched and her head tilted forwards. He wanted to reach for her but thus far, his clumsy attempts at intimacy had been a disaster. Instead, he crossed his arms behind his back.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" She replied raggedly.

He was so overwhelmed by the answers that flooded his mind that he had to hold his breath. His thoughts were a cacophony of bleating needs with no shepherd. For a moment, he lost the ability to speak. Finally, with a shake of his head, he was able to form a coherent thought and narrowed in on his most pressing concern.

"I-I . . . I want for you not to be mad," he stammered.

His inner self stretched thin like high clouds dissipating in the atmosphere as he awaited her response. Molly turned at last, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Nothing could destroy him quite like that. A grimace contorted his features like paper unfurling in a fire. Her long brown hair spilled forward as she clutched the lapels of her dressing gown at her chest. She was so tiny. Why was he the one who felt so small?

"I am not m-mad," she replied with a quiver in her tone.

He had heard her declare something like this before. He even knew what she would say next, but was not prepared for the searing heat that cut through his chest when she confirmed his suspicion.

She rubbed her nose with her hand as she sniffed. "I am . . . sad."

He thought his hands must be white the way he gripped them so tightly behind his back. His whole body was rigid. He froze in that position for a short while but eventually started shaking and collapsed under the weight of his emotions.

"Huuuh," he breathed as he doubled over. "Mm, ahem, Christ."

Sherlock braced himself on his knees. He inhaled several times as he fought the tremors coursing through his body. He stared at the cracks between the wooden floorboards in an attempt to center himself.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, soft footfalls brought her closer. "What's wrong? Are you in pain? Were you injured very severely last night? Tell me where it hurts."

He looked up between riotous curls. Her hand hovered, nearly touching his shoulder. He shook his head but felt unsteady and slunk against the sink basin to the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him.

"Sh-Sherlock," Molly kneeled in beside him, gathering her dressing gown around her. "Sherlock, please tell me what is happening."

He leaned his head back against the apron of the farmhouse style sink.

"I am not injured," he swallowed. "I just needed to sit."

"On the floor?" She asked, her forehead puckering in a frown.

He nodded. His fingers itched to touch her face but he refrained. Panic rose in his throat like bile. What if she never forgave him? What if he was never allowed to touch her again?

"Molly," he tried to memorize every facet of her beautiful face. "I am . . . sorry. I do not know how to be married."

An emotion he couldn't quite pinpoint flitted through her expression as she temporarily looked down. Then her head lifted and her lips opened.

"I-I don't understand," she eventually replied. "D-Do you _want_ to be married?"

He dipped his head. "Yes."

"To me?"

"Yes."

Her nose wrinkled as she pursed her lips.

"Why?"

"Honestly?" He asked.

She glowered at him. "Of course!"

"I don't know."

Molly was not impressed with his response by the way she poked her lips to the side and sighed noisily.

"You are a very frustrating man, Sherlock Holmes," she muttered.

He nodded slowly and raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I am aware of this."

She exhaled a long breath from between tense lips. For a moment, Sherlock thought she was going to leave but then, unexpectedly, she plopped herself beside him on the floor and bopped her head back against the sink. He swiveled his head towards hers and there they sat a moment, appraising one another. A coiling tendril of honey brown hair wisped across her cheek. Her luminous eyes, with their flecks of amber, searched his face.

"Why do you always, _always_ say the most distressing things?" She asked, a hint of frustration in her tone.

He tensed as her hand slid over his forearm on the floor. He tried not to otherwise react. Their truce felt as insubstantial as butterfly wings.

His lips twitched. "Why do you always question me?"

Sherlock glanced down to where her fingers stroked his arm absentmindedly.

Molly laughed aloud. "Oh, Lord, there you go again. I am beginning to think it's a mental deficiency with you, Sherlock. Does no one usually question you?"

He pressed his lips together as he thought about her query. She began giggling.

"Oh, that's it, isn't it? You have thus far intimidated everyone into silent acquiescence because of your brilliance."

"Except you?" He raised his brows. "You are not impressed by my intelligence."

She looked forward with a grin and wagged her head a bit. "I might be, if I saw any of it."

Sherlock clicked his teeth as he suppressed an impulse to retort in his usual manner. Molly gazed down, turned his hand over and threaded her fingers between his before nudging him with her elbow. He felt so off balance that he wasn't sure what to do. Her elbow nudged his ribs a second time.

"Come now, don't be like that," she urged.

He drew in a shaky breath as he studied her profile with its stubborn chin and upturned nose. He squeezed her fingers in return.

"I really am brilliant," he mumbled.

He watched a smile pull at the corner of her lips before she glanced his way again.

"You do not need to sell yourself to me, Sherlock," she said in a low voice.

It took everything he had not to kiss her again. His focus kept returning to her lips.

"Don't I?" He murmured in his deepest tone.

"Well, perhaps a little," Molly replied.

He wrinkled his nose. He wasn't sure but he felt as if something had changed between them. The kitchen suddenly seemed very quiet save for the drip of the faucet above them. The falling drops amplified the tenuous silence.

"Sherlock," Molly began anxiously. "May I do something?"

He squinted. "Hmm, that depends. What do you want to do?"

She appeared bashful all of a sudden. "May I kiss you?"

A flush cascaded through his insides at the timid question. He was ill-at-ease then, uncertain of himself. He inhaled quickly and bowed his head with a stiff nod. Molly scooted closer, brought his hand to her lap and reached up to draw his head towards hers. Just before they made contact, her warm breath pulsed against his chin and her gentle brown eyes darkened. He angled his head lower to allow her lips to feather across his shyly.

He closed his eyes and gave in to the moment. This was probably what their first kiss should have been like - a light caress, a sweet taste he could savor. Molly sighed and twined her fingers into his hair as she opened her mouth. He quaked as her tongue flicked against his lip. He was so close to pulling her into his arms again. It took everything in him not to lean forward and demand more, but then Molly surprised him. She clutched at his neck and kissed him hard. The crush caused his lip to throb.

"Mmph!"

She jerked back. "Wh-What did I do?"

He touched his mouth. "Nothing, my lip is just a bit sore from last night."

"Oh," she sucked in a breath. "Oh, I'm sorry."

He smiled. "No, please don't. That was quite . . . enjoyable."

Her skin flushed pink. She made a 'tsk' sound and tentatively stroked his cheek. "Lord, your face."

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. "You should see the rest of me."

Her colour deepened. "Behave!"

It was it that moment when Sherlock realized how terribly misguided he had been in seducing his wife. She deserved better from him. She deserved to be courted, to have her heart won and he wanted to win it. What an odd place and time to come to that conclusion, in the middle of the kitchen, sitting on the floor against the sink. He cleared his throat as visions of them ruining Mrs. Hudson's freshly waxed sheen on the hard wood floors popped into his mind. He had to find them something else to do before he spoiled it all by pouncing on her again. He heaved in a breath.

"Molly . . ."

"Yes?"

"I need your help."

She raised her brows. "Do you?"

"Yes, you see, I'm going to a brothel today . . . ," even as he said the words, he knew they weren't coming out right.

Molly's lashes fluttered and her eyes rounded. "Y-Y-You are going to a brothel?"

"No, no, it is not like that," he searched for words, "I want you to come with me!"

She just sat there stunned with her mouth hanging open. Sherlock scratched his brow. Still not quite right.

"Damn, um, what I meant to explain was that I have a case and I need to make enquiries there. It is unlikely the women will feel comfortable speaking with me. They might be more inclined to provide you with the information I need."

"You want me to help you investigate a case?"

"Yes, of course. I will ensure we are discreet so as not to besmirch your reputation."

A wrinkle creased Molly's brow. "I don't know-"

However, his wife's curiosity was piqued. There was a gleam in her eye he recognized. Molly wasn't unlike his dear friend John in that way. She seemed to crave a thrill. He should have thought of this before. What better way to endear himself to his wife than to fulfill a desire for excitement and show himself at his best? How could she resist him once she saw him in action? He smiled to himself, pleased with his plan. Additionally, her presence at the brothel would provide another benefit.

"Please, Molly, I would be grateful for your assistance," he implored softly, "and your, erm, _protection_."

* * *

"What are you grumbling about?" Sherlock snapped.

John pulled Sherlock back to the entry of Madam Adler's brothel and away from the fussy, overly posh parlor where Molly studied a rather bawdy painting above the room's ornate mantel.

"I cannot believe you brought your wife here," John whispered harshly under his breath. "it's improper, no, indecent to expose her to this place, Sherlock."

John scrunched his nose as he studied the grand entry with even more salacious paintings of nudes frolicking. The whole house insinuated sin from the red and black striped wallpaper to the odd, sheer partitions that hung everywhere. The 'ladies' of the house kept their distance; moving around mysteriously like spectres. He only caught the odd glimpse of a fleeting female figure every now and then out of the corner of his eye. While he did not deign to judge these women for their choices (and lack thereof for some), he knew that most people in New Westminster were quite severe in their opinions. Many would look the other way if they knew Sherlock had visited this place. However, Molly would not be so fortunate and most likely suffer their condemnation were word to go round she had been inside this house. John would never risk Mary's reputation that way. When he looked back at Sherlock, the man glowered angrily.

"Molly is a trained physician, John, like yourself. She is familiar with a-a . . . diverse array of people. She is not some wilting flower."

John huffed through his nose. He shook his head back and forth in disbelief as his brows shot up.

"My God, was it not just yesterday afternoon that you called her 'fragile'?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Yes, well, I was mistaken. She has proven to be quite, mm, the opposite?"

John made a face. "I do not even want to know how you came to that determination."

"Mr. Holmes!" A husky female's voice called from above them. "Ooh, isn't this a nice surprise."

John recognized who had spoken before he even laid eyes on the woman who possessed the wicked tone. It was the Madam of this particular brothel, Irene Adler. He tamped down a chuckle as Sherlock's shoulders tensed and a masked frown traversed his features. John glanced up the grand stairs to Irene. She always had a way of dressing that would have been modest, if not for the person beneath the garb. She wore a satin dress in deep scarlet with long, puffed sleeves. It was fitted at the waist and flared into a bell type skirt. However, the garment was far too snug for any proper lady. In addition, Irene's dark hair was pulled back into an intricate coif, her eyes were rimmed in black khol and her lips painted a shocking red. John felt his face heat as if caught ogling a risqué pinup girl.

"Molly," Sherlock hissed under his breath. "Molly!?"

John wanted to dissolve into a fit of laughter. The great Sherlock Holmes needed his diminutive wife to defend him. However, Molly must not have heard the summons because she did not immediately appear from the parlor.

"Good Afternoon, Madam," John bowed his head in a curt nod as Irene descended the stairs.

She held out her hand. "Dr. Watson, hello. My goodness Mr. Holmes, I had heard you boxed last night but was I misinformed? Did you lose the match? You do not possess the face of victory."

"I did, in fact, win the bout," Sherlock replied dryly as he shook her hand instead of kissing it as she expected.

Irene twitched her brows and leaned closer.

"If you needed a release, I could have provided you with a similar service without damaging that lovely mug," she smiled, then her eyes constricted in thought, "but that is not why you are here today, hmm? What brings you calling, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "A case."

Irene delicately arched a brow. "Indulging yourself in that hobby of your again, are you? Has your brother not been keeping you busy? Speaking of whom, I was told we have three visitors but I only see two of you. Have you brought your delectable sibling with you? I have so longed to make his better acquaintance. Outside the courtroom, that is."

The detective shook his head slowly and backed towards the parlor just as Irene advanced with puckered lips.

"Aw, pity. I suppose you will have to suffice. A case you say? Why don't we discuss it further in my chambers?"

John clamped his lips to stop from laughing aloud as Sherlock continued to back away. The Madam was either clueless or enjoying how uncomfortable she made him feel. John suspected the latter. Just as they stepped into the parlor, Irene wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck with a cat-like grin.

Behind them came a titter of female voices. John looked around the pair to where Molly sat on a sofa surrounded by a gaggle of women in scant attire. Her small face took on a scowl and she stood quickly, smoothing her hands over her plain, grey skirts.

"Kindly remove your hands from my husband," came her clipped demand.

Irene's eyes enlarged in surprise. Molly brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead, her gold band glinted on her ring finger. She raised her chin and stared down her pert nose in expectation. Irene dropped her hands to Sherlock's shoulders. John held his breath as she seemed determined to disobey Molly's directive.

"The mysterious Mrs. Holmes," Irene murmured. "So the rumors are true."

Molly drew in a deep inhalation and cricked her neck. "Perhaps you misunderstood, so I will repeat myself one last time. Remove your hands from my husband or I will remove them for you."

A girl with bright red curls wearing little more than a corset and pantaloons jumped up to her feet beside Molly. She wrung her hands as she looked nervously between the two women.

"I think you'd better listen to the lass, Madam."

With one last glance towards Molly, Irene chuckled softly and released him. John could see a fleeting look of irritation in the woman's eyes. He guessed she did not like being put in her place in front of her staff by a woman who was probably only two thirds her size.

"As you wish," she said slowly, sounding somewhat falsely cheerful. "Well, then, how may I help you, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?"


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock pressed his fingers together under his nose as he sat back in the overstuffed chair in Madam Adler's parlor. His eyes flicked in the direction Molly had exited the room for what seemed like the one-hundredth time. John pursed his lips as he tried not to laugh. He had always thought Sherlock a man too gripped by cold logic, unaffected by emotion and incapable of attachment. Yet in front of him sat someone ready to spring from his seat at any moment because he was anxious about being parted from his diminutive firecracker of a wife. John rubbed the bridge of his nose and shook his head. The entire day had been surreal. The pair of them were absolutely ridiculous. For two very intelligent people, they seemed utterly clueless about each other's feelings.

John resolved right then that he had to move on with his life. He needed to give Sherlock and Molly space to sort things out. Besides, it was high time he had his own wife and home. He smiled inwardly. Mary! He would ask for her hand as soon as possible. Why delay? Why put himself through the torture these two seemed compelled to endure?

"So, Madam Adler," Sherlock rumbled. "Do you have an answer for me?"

Irene blinked and lifted her shoulders delicately. "We are not currently missing anyone. However, girls come and go. It's the nature of the profession. You cannot expect me to account for all of the women who've darkened my door."

Sherlock assessed her with narrowed eyes. "Indeed. How about a Caucasian woman about one hundred and thirty pounds, five-foot two with brown hair and eyes, and a slight lisp."

John straightened in his seat. "Lisp? How do you know she had a lisp?"

Sherlock's brows twisted as he glanced at John. "Her tongue was too large for her mouth and she had a rather high palette. Really, John, you examined her, didn't you notice those abnormalities?"

John frowned. "No, I did not, in actual fact."

Sherlock's lips turned down and he shrugged. "Hmm."

Irene's expression was one of ice. The woman gave nothing away.

"Apologies, your unfortunate dead woman does not ring a bell. Now, I must ask you all to be on your way. Our first clients will be arriving soon. Unless, of course, you would like to indulge in some frivolities, Mr. Holmes. I don't require actual payment, just your time."

Sherlock paled. "Madam! Really, control yourself, my wife is downstairs tending to one of your employees."

Irene winked and reclined back in her seat. "Oh, no matter, I quite enjoy her spirit. She is . . . feisty? Mm, I do like feisty. It makes for a lot of fun. She would be more than welcome to join us. In fact, I insist on it. I think she has become my new favorite Holmes."

* * *

Molly depressed her patient's stomach and checked the position of her baby. The little one was head down, ready to make his or her entrance into the world. Molly inhaled an unsteady breath as she felt a flutter in her belly. This could be her in as many months, heavily pregnant with a little Holmes. She felt her face flush as memories of the intimacies she had shared with Sherlock flooded her mind. She fanned her face as it flared with heat. He had said he wanted to be married. Did that mean he wanted everything that went along with it?

She cleared her throat as she looked down at the young woman she had examined. "I am available for delivery when the times comes, Edie. You just send word and I'll be here straight away."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" The young woman exclaimed. "While I adore Dr. Watson, I deal with men all the time, you know. It would be so nice to have a lady doctor tend to me this time."

Molly raised her brows. "This time?"

"Ah, yes, this is my second child. My first is with one of my Mennonite sisters in Alberta. She can't have children so she's always glad to scoop up mine," she chirped, almost too cheerfully. "She'll take this one as well, you see. It all works out."

Edie Friesen, with her blonde locks and cherubic face, seemed so out of place in this small, sparsely decorated room in the basement of a brothel. Then again, none of the women truly seemed as if they were happily employed. Except for perhaps, the matriarch of the house, Irene Adler. Molly tried not to show any emotion, but she found herself heartbroken for the young woman lying on the bed. While she claimed indifference about giving up a child, there was a tightness to her face and a deep longing in the depths of her eyes that spoke otherwise.

Molly set to work examining Edie and offered reassurance about the health of the baby, in so far as she could tell from her outside examination. As she did, Edie chatted nearly uninterrupted. Molly learned how she and another sister had run away from home when they were teenagers because they did not want to be married off to a pair of older men in their church. She also learned a great deal more about their lives since that time as they tried to survive. As Edie continued to talk, her mood became melancholy and eventually, she began to cry.

"Sometimes I wonder if we would have been better off to have stayed within our community. Especially now that I'm all alone. I've got nobody," Edie sniffled.

"What about your sister?" Molly patted her hand.

"She's gone. Found herself an American fellow from Oregon and moved to the South, or so the Madam said. She's gutted me, Dr. Holmes. I never would have left without telling her where I was going. I didn't think my sister was so cruel," Edie covered her face as tears spilled down her face, "but then, I still don't. I wonder if the Madam is being honest. I mean, I loved Gertie to death, but she wasn't the type to inspire passions. When we first came to New Westminster, Gertie was hit by a carriage crossing Columbia Street. Her leg and face were both badly broken. After that, her cheek drooped on one side and she limped. The men who paid for her services usually were the most odious of our clients. She never liked any of them and in turn, I never saw any man so overcome by her charms he might spirit her away."

Molly nodded as she listened. Her face felt cold, likely she had paled. She did not share what Sherlock had told her about the young woman found in the river. There was no point in upsetting Edie when they didn't know the mystery woman's identity. Moreover, perhaps Edie's sister had gone off just like she had been told. Why would Irene tell her a story otherwise? That was the inconguety. Molly had no reason to suspect the Madam would fabricate such a tale, though. It did not follow that because of her chosen profession, as distasteful as it was to Molly, that Irene was a bad person. In fact, it was commendable that Miss Adler had not turned Edie out during her confinement.

"Was Gertie a kind and caring person?" Molly asked.

Edie smiled sadly. "Oh, the most, Dr. Holmes."

Molly smiled. "Then it is not so hard to imagine a man fell in love with her and wanted to give her a better life, hmm? Especially as she sounds like she deserved some happiness. Perhaps she will write and let you know soon whether or not she is well."

Edie's face turned pink. "Um, I hope so although, I cannot read a word. Gertie a-always read for me."

Molly frowned. Poor Edie. Literacy was so important for women. It opened more doors for them and offered choices they might not otherwise have. If Edie could read and write, she might be able to find an occupation better suited to her disposition.

"Would you like to learn to read?" Molly asked.

The pregnant woman laughed as she struggled to a sitting position. "Pfft, I'm too stupid to learn."

"Nonsense," Molly chided her, "anyone can learn to read. I could teach you. What do you say? I could come down here once a week and give you lessons while I check the health of your wee one."

"Once a week! Dr. Holmes, a respectable lady like yourself shouldn't visit here at all. I appreciate the offer, but it's too late for me and I'll not have you sully your reputation on my account."

"But-"

Edie held up her hand. "Besides, Madam probably wouldn't allow it. This is a place of business, after all, not a charity. I'm lucky she let me stay on. I'll not push my luck. I appreciate the offer, though. Really, I do. It's more kindness than I deserve."

"Don't be ridiculous," Molly said quickly. "You deserve as much kindness as anyone, maybe even more so considering the lack of it in your life to date. My offer stands, Edie. I would like to help you. Being taught to read should not be considered something only for the privileged. It should be a basic human right that a person be able to communicate in the written word."

Edie sniffled and squeezed her hand. "I thank you, doctor. I will keep your offer in mind. Now, you better get going. I've got to get off to the kitchen myself and start prepping dinner."

So, with that, Molly said her goodbyes to Edie and decided to seek out her husband. Just as she cracked the door to the room, a woman passed by in a blur of movement. Molly shook her head. Blonde hair, a confident gait, chin up . . . there was something very familiar in her countenance. As Molly stepped out into the hall, the woman flitted up the back stairs. Curiosity gripped her and she decided to follow.

* * *

John and Sherlock headed towards the back staircase of the brothel to find Molly. At the far end of the corridor, they saw a flash of her skirts as she disappeared up the steps to the upper floor.

"Where on Earth do you think she's going?" John sputtered.

Sherlock flipped up his collar. "Likely, someone else is pressing upon Molly's goodwill and has enlisted her to examine a boil or something. Come, we had better intercede before they make her a permanent fixture at this place."

The pair of them headed up the stairs. At the top they nearly knocked Molly over as they rounded the corner to where she had stopped and peered down the hall. When she turned and saw John, her eyes rounded.

"What are you doing up here, Molly?" Sherlock grumbled.

She swallowed. "Erm, nothing, nothing! Are you two quite finished with your interview? Shall we go?"

Sherlock's eyes constricted. Molly was anxious. She had spun and widened her stance as if trying to conceal the scene beyond. He reached out and gently urged her aside. She shook her head and mouthed, 'don't'. However, it was too late. As clear as day, they saw Mary Morstan rapping on a door to one of the bedrooms. It swung open, and the person who answered was none other than Professor James Moriarty. He smiled widely upon seeing Mary and stepped back. Mary paused, raised her chin and disappeared into the room. All three of the spectators stared dumfounded after her as the door swung closed in her wake.

"My God! Mary!" John whispered. "What the hell is she doing here in a brothel visiting that man?"


	16. Chapter 16

It took only a moment after seeing Mary disappear into one of the bedrooms of Madam Adler's brothel for anger to replace Dr. Watson's confusion. Molly frantically gathered her skirts as she stepped closer to him and Sherlock, unsure of what to do. Both John and Mary had become her dear friends. She did not want to see either of them hurt over a potential misunderstanding. There had to be an explanation for Mary to be in a strange man's room, alone.

Molly's breath caught. Lord, even recounting that in her head did not seem even a little bit good. John straightened his neck and moved to brush by her and Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock hissed as he grabbed his friend's arm before he could step foot on the hall's ornate Turkish rug. "John, now is not the time."

"Unhand me, that's my fiancé!"

Sherlock's brow twisted as he released his hold. "Fiancé?"

John huffed. "I planned to ask her to marry me."

Sherlock glanced at Molly. His eyes rounded slightly before he returned his gaze to the very incensed John.

"If you want her to accept your hand, charging into that room when you haven't the faintest idea of what is going on is the last thing you should do."

"This is rich!" John shouted and then lowered his voice. "You're the expert on women, now, are you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I do have a wife. I have learned quite a lot-"

Molly snorted and raised her brows. Sherlock tightened his lips as he tried not to smile. His eyes crinkled as he returned his focus to John.

"Seriously, John. You know I am right."

John snatched his hat from his own head in exasperation then rubbed his hand over his face with a growl. He cursed and shifted on his feet a moment before exhaling noisily and glowering at his friend.

"Alright, we will do it your way," he wagged his finger in Sherlock's face with an eye twitching in anger. "Always . . . always your way."

"I am positive there is an explanation for her visit here to whomever that fellow is," Molly looked at Sherlock. "Erm, who is he?"

Molly had her suspicions as she thought about the contusion on the man's cheek.

"He's the one who rearranged your husband's face," John muttered, "and nearly beat him senseless by doing so."

"Indeed?" She turned a brow towards Sherlock.

"Ahem, John exaggerates. I was never in much danger," he said quickly. "Pay no heed to his histrionics, Molly, He's just upset-"

"Upset!"

"Listen, my friend," Sherlock grasped his shoulder. "I will find out what this is about, that I swear to you."

For a moment, John seethed but then reluctantly glanced at the closed door at the end of the corridor. He shook his head, spun and started down the stairwell. Molly let out a sigh of relief. She was certain this situation would be resolved shortly. She and her husband gazed at each other before Sherlock cleared his throat and offered his arm.

"Shall we, Mrs. Holmes?" He murmured in his deepest tone.

Molly chewed her lip. Funny how a formal title could be such an endearing pet name. Her skin flushed hot again as she realized how very thoroughly she had been made Mrs. Holmes the previous evening.

She slipped her hand around his arm and nodded. "Mr. Holmes."

By tucking his elbow in, he drew her right up against him. Her fingers curled over his muscular forearm as a tingle surged through her body. She could not help but be very aware of the raw power he exuded. As polished as he appeared in his commanding black attire and long coat, he was very much raw male in every glorious way. She snuck a peak at his striking profile. She had fibbed when she said he wasn't as pretty with a few bumps and bruises. If anything, the man was even more enchanting.

Molly leaned against Sherlock in utter contentment as they casually followed John out of the brothel and into their awaiting carriage. They shared the bench opposite their companion. It would have been one of her favorite moments in recent memories except for the pained look on John's face. Sadly, he just stared silently out the side of their conveyance as it lumbered back to Ash Street.

* * *

Molly scooped the last bite of salmon off her plate and into her mouth. She closed her eyes as she savored the taste of the delectable fish soaked in butter and flavored with a hint of dill. She had never had anything melt in her mouth in such a satisfying way. She half-sighed, half-moaned. She had eaten so much, she might need to let out the seams on her fussy, blue crepe dinner dress.

"Mm, this is the most delicious food I've eaten in ages," she mumbled.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking across the table at Sherlock with a scowl shaded by the dim overhead electric fixture and the flickering candles in the table's centerpiece. His gaze flitted from her hovering silver fork to her mouth. His brow grew heavier on his forehead.

"Enjoying your meal?" His voice rumbled to her like a rolling tide.

Molly quickly exchanged her fork for a napkin and wiped her mouth. She folded it carefully and set it down next to the hand-painted china plate which she had nearly licked clean.

"I am," she glanced to their dinner mate. "Mrs. Hudson, you are a wonder."

"Oh, thank you, Molly," the older woman replied cheerfully, her cheeks pink from imbibing in brandy. "I do like a nice fish bake now and then and we get such lovely, fresh catch from the Fraser. Do you want another helping? There's plenty more. I don't think John is going to have any. He's in a rather foul mood."

Molly found herself warming under Sherlock's intense scrutiny. "No, thank-you. I'm quite satisfied."

"Are you?" Once again, Sherlock's voice caused her to quiver all over.

Something in the way he spoke made Molly feel wicked, as if she were some sort of temptress. She sipped liqueur from her own dainty crystal glass to steady herself. She had to admit after her modest upbringing, it was a bit of heaven to be indulged with a decadent meal served on such fine wares. Something about the experience stirred her wantonness.

"Yes," she returned huskily as she looked up at her husband once again, "although, I am certain my appetite will require satiation again soon."

Sherlock's lip twitched he sat forward as he leaned on his folded hands. His eyes narrowed in thought.

"Soon? As in tonight?"

Molly pressed her lips together to quell a grin. "Possibly. Investigative work can render a person rather peckish, don't you agree?"

His nostrils flared. "Yes, I felt ravenous the entire afternoon."

Mrs. Hudson looked anxiously between the two of them, then wisely decided to change the subject. "Oh, ahem, speaking of your investigation. Did you have any success, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes in her direction.

"Another dead end, I'm afraid," he muttered. "They are not missing anyone."

Molly frowned as she was pulled away from her licentious fantasies. "Is that what you were told?"

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of brandy. "Yes, why? Did someone divulge something different?"

Molly inhaled deeply. "Not exactly. Erm, Edie, the woman I tended, has a sister who left the house recently under strange circumstances. Her name is Gertie and she supposedly went off with a client to live happily ever after but never bothered to tell Edie about it. Edie insisted such behavoir is unlike her sister."

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson murmured. "That doesn't sound good."

Sherlock absorbed this information. "Who informed Edie about her sister's departure?"

"None other than your Madam, Irene Adler."

He drummed his fingers on the table's lacquered walnut surface then jumped up quickly. "Ah, this is beginning to get very interesting, very interesting, indeed! Ha! Our dead woman must be the sister. She simply must. There is far too much afoot under the roof of that brothel for this to be a coincidence."

"Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, it's not decent to be so giddy," Mrs. Hudson scolded.

He tugged at his black, embroidered vest and smiled. "These kinds of cases are not solved by decent people, Mrs. Hudson."

The older woman just pursed her lips and waved her hand at him. Sherlock twitched his brows at Molly.

"My dear, what else can you tell me about this 'Gertie'?" He asked.

Molly smiled inwardly at the sweet address Sherlock unwittingly used. She relayed Edie's story as he paced and listened. Mrs. Hudson excused herself and swanned off to the kitchen to begin cleaning up the evening's meal. As Molly spoke, Sherlock paused his steps from time to time, muttered to himself and then flourished his hand as if dismissing a thought. When she reached the end of her tale, he rubbed his temple with his index and middle finger.

"Edie did not speak of any identifying marks? A birthmark? Webbed toes?" He asked.

Molly shook her head. "No, but she did mention injuries, a broken leg and cheek. It would be quite simple for me to examine the body to ascertain whether or not these exist-"

A crease appeared between his brows. "You examine the body? Out of the question! Our corpse has been buried for weeks. She will be in an advanced state of decomposition. I would not want to subject you to that spectre."

Molly sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "I will have you know I dissected numerous cadavers in every condition imaginable in the course of my medical training. Also, the London police force often relied upon my father to examine bodies in cases of suspected murder. I assisted him in doing this up until his death. Thus, I was probably exposed to more guts and gore before I turned fifteen than you have witnessed in your entire life. I might even be so bold as to council you not view that body, Sherlock Holmes, lest your constitution is not as fortified as my own."

His eyes widened slightly as he gazed at her like she was a conundrum. He stopped and stood there for a moment with a vacant stare then took two hesitant steps and leaned over the table. He opened his mouth to say something but clapped it closed again. Finally, after several moments of silent study as if she were a specimen under a magnifying glass, he spoke again in a near whisper.

"I did not know women like you inhabited this world, Molly."

Molly's eyebrows shot up. "I would take that as praise, Sherlock, except that I am not as rare a woman as your comment implies. Indeed, the only difference between myself and other females is the opportunities I was afforded."

"Now that I cannot believe," he murmured, directing a puff of air at a curl on his forehead. "For even most men would not exploit their opportunities as you have done. You are right in that you are not rare, though. Rarity suggests there exists someone your equal when you are, in fact, unique."

Molly's face flushed with a furious heat. If he had recited mellifluous poetry extolling her beauty and grace, she did not think she would be half as flattered as hearing those words from his lips. She could not imagine a better compliment and to top it all off, it came from the one person whose opinion she cared about most in the world.

She uncrossed her arms and clinched her fingers together, suddenly overtaken by nerves. "You compliment me too profusely, sir."

Sherlock looked down a moment. He seemed slightly flustered himself as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"I have not complimented you enough."

An awkward silence followed until Molly cleared her throat. His simple declaration pained her heart, for a wealth of guilt laced his words.

"Erm, I-I do want to help you. I also want to help Edie. Please, Sherlock, if I can assist you in any way, I would like to make myself useful."

He searched her face and then dipped his head. "Very well. I will see about exhuming the body so that you may examine it."

More silence followed. Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth as his thoughts seemed to race. After a few seconds, he sucked in a deep breath.

"Mm, um, forgive me, Molly. I should probably check on John."

"Yes, yes, of course."

He started away but then stopped at the dining room entry and turned back. Her heart picked up speed in her chest. The dark wood trim of the entry framed his sombre form and pale skin. He reminded her of a gothic painting from an ancient monastery. He was the perfect depiction of the eternal struggle, both at once an angel and a demon.

"This may take some time," he said softly. "Are you retiring straight away or will you be awake for a while yet?"

Molly offered him a smile. "I think I will help Mrs. Hudson and then find myself something to read from your collection, with your permission."

He bowed his head slowly. There was such control in the gesture. He lifted his eyes to hers. They had become shadowed with secret musing and bored into hers intensely.

"You are welcome to anything," he intoned. "Where will I find you later? I would very much like to bid you goodnight and ensure you do not, ahem, . . . go hungry."

Molly felt a quiver in her belly. She gulped back some brandy.

"I will be in the parlor," she said breathily.

"Excellent, until then, Molly."

She couldn't speak. She just nodded. So much for reading. She doubted she would be able to concentrate on anything else but the lingering heat from his gaze.


	17. Chapter 17

Molly knew that if her first introduction to the weird and wonderful world of Sherlock Holmes had been his study instead of the man himself, she would have fallen in love with him sight unseen. The small space, no larger than their cozy parlor, was packed full of items that spoke of his thirst for knowledge in addition to a passion for the bizarre. She could almost weep that such a place existed. It was perfect.

She whirled, her skirts spreading out around her as she breathed in the scents and took in the sights. A beautifully handcrafted violin occupied one corner like a shrine next to a stand stuffed with music sheets. She blinked several times, it was as if she could hear its ghostlike refrains in her mind. The sounds were almost real. When had she heard Sherlock play? She could not place the tunes haunting her mind. They seemed like melodies from a dream.

Around her rose deep, dark bookshelves containing all manner of text and tome on every scientific subject imaginable. There was volume after volume of rare medical and chemistry works in several languages. She ran her fingers over their sturdy spines. She plucked one off the shelf and flipped it open to lovingly trace its anatomical drawings with her fingers. She replaced the book and moved on to inspect his collection of arrowheads mounted in glass cases hanging above the fireplace. Along the mantel there was an assortment of tobacco pipes, a brass spotting scope and magnifying glass, and a human skull.

Molly leaned closer to inspect the skull. Just as she was about to touch it, a familiar timber at her back caused her to jump.

"Careful, he bites," Sherlock's voice reverberated behind her.

Molly startled and rotated quickly, warmth flushed her skin. "O-Oh, erm, hello. Sorry, I came looking for a book. I hope you don't mind."

Sherlock closed the door softly. "You are welcome to anything in this room, any time."

"Thank-you," she said shyly. "Um, how is John?"

Sherlock smiled. "He is doing well, actually. He has already made a list of several excuses for why Mary might have been visiting the new professor in his room."

"So, he is going to give her the benefit of the doubt?"

"Yes, he finds himself in the same indefensible position of having to explain what he was doing at the brothel if he brings the matter up. So, John is going to do what John does best and pretend like it did not happen."

Molly watched an almost imperceptible frown tweak the corners of Sherlock's lips and eyes. "You do not approve."

His frown bubbled to the surface. "I neither approve nor disapprove. Mary's actions concern me, that is all. John may be able to overlook his curiosity for the sake of his future with Mary. I however, could no more do that than cut off my own foot."

Molly laughed softly. "I don't imagine you could."

She wrung her hands as she appraised her handsome husband. _Hers_. Just days ago, she had lamented about how cruel the fates were to tease her about a life she could never hope to have. At this moment, that very life was laid out before her like a mouth-watering buffet. Was it possible for her to have everything she had ever dreamed of? Could life really be that kind? She had always felt a bit in love with Sherlock from the moment she initially found herself caught in his possessive gaze, but hadn't expected just how hard she fell at the very idea he would request a body be exhumed just so she could examine it. She was still trying to grapple with the sudden and intense feelings of elation and anxiousness that had followed their earlier exchange.

Sherlock had proven himself the rarest of men. That he thought Molly competent, that he trusted her to help him, and that he accepted she was capable from her own declarations in spite of his initial misgivings, had earned him her undying devotion. She was absolutely in love with him. It choked her up to think that such a man had claimed her as his own. Her wedding ring hung heavy on her finger as she greedily fed off the sight of him, still dressed smartly in his black vest and trousers. He wore a purple shirt that evening. Its rich, royal hue set off his dark curls and pale skin to perfection. His cravat had been abandoned, though, and his sleeves rolled up. The hint of skin at his throat and bare, strong forearms set her pulse racing.

"So, you wanted something to read. Is there anything particular you were looking for?" Sherlock murmured as he came in her direction.

She shook her head. Her mind was blank. He had wiped out all form of coherent thought.

He came to a stop inches away, his pale eyes fixed on her face, and reached past her to extract a book from the nearest shelf. There was something in the careful manner in which he handled the worn book that made her blood heat. His long, elegant fingers caressed each page until he found a particular chapter and paused to rub his pads over its title. Molly quivered right down to her toes. Oh, good God, she couldn't get his prior words about ensuring she didn't go hungry out of her head.

"This particular text was written by a Scottish priest about one hundred years ago who had a keen interest in the mechanics of the human skeletal structure," Sherlock's deep timber washed over her. "His illustrations are second to none. I thought you might like to peruse this as it relates to the examination you offered to do."

Molly nodded and blinked at the pages several times but her eyes kept darting away from the characters to his fingers. Sherlock closed the book in one hand. She lifted her eyes to his which glinted knowingly.

"But perhaps this isn't the sort of entertainment you are interested in at present," he said, his eyes flicking back and forth as he studied her.

She drew in a steadying breath. "No, no, I am. Anatomy! . . . I am very interested in anatomy . . ."

He bowed his head once leisurely and smiled. "I'd wager you are, Molly."

Sherlock didn't bother replacing the book on the shelf. Instead, he tossed it on a stand next to the room's low, crimson settee. Her heart was positively pounding at the shadowed look on his face. He appraised her for a moment, his chest rising and falling like undulation of a slow rolling wave. Instead of calming and dissipating the energy between them, his intense focus seemed set fire to the air around them. Molly felt heat, so much heat everywhere in her limbs, her lungs, and her loins. He seemed uncertain of what to do next though, so she launched herself at him. He caught her with a deep groan of satisfaction and his mouth dove down to meet hers halfway.

Sherlock's lips engulfed Molly's in a sort of fumbling kiss that was fierce and full of longing as if he could barely contain himself. She buried her hands in his hair, their silken strands coiled around each finger graspingly. She moaned against his mouth in gratification and in doing so, a shudder coursed through his frame. His fingers tensed and pressed into her upper and lower back to hold her tightly against his solid body. He was just this large mass of unyielding muscle and bone. The way her skirts swished around his legs and she clung to him, she felt as if she were a shallow river trying to flow around a large rock.

"Molly," he breathed against her lips, "my God, Molly, I have to possess you. I have to make you mine again."

His rasping words caused her sex to clench between her legs and a delicious tingling sensation flood her inner walls. Her body reacted to the husky tone of his voice like a tuning fork and started preparing itself. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back to gulp in breaths. A panting cry left her as his pliant, slightly moist lips gently plucked along her throat.

"Sherlock, a-ah, you d-do things to me . . ."

"Yes," he growled, dragging his teeth over her collar bone lightly, "you were made for me, Molly Holmes. You were made to respond to my touch."

She was in full agreement with him. Even as a doctor, she couldn't comprehend her reaction to her husband. Every inch in contact with him burned as much as every inch devoid of his touch ached. Her body clamored for completion, begged for his possession.

"Please," Molly whispered, her fingers gripping his hair in handfuls as he tasted the flesh of her collar, "Sherlock, I need you. I'm . . . unh, in a kind of pain."

His head came up and his lips slammed over hers again. His tongue flicked at her lips and thrust into her mouth. At the same time, his fingers went to work on the row of fabric, covered buttons along the back of her dress. She gripped his torso as their tongues dueled, his muscles flexed beneath her hands as he worked. After struggling for a few moments, he pulled back slightly with nostrils flaring as he fought to breathe.

"Forgive me," he grunted, "this dress is quite attractive, but it must go."

She felt the fabric tighten across her back and chest a moment and then the most satisfying ripping sound as it loosened, then it sagged on her frame. She stepped back and quickly shuffled out of it as Sherlock watched her intensely. He shrugged out of his vest then went to unfasten his shirt but she shook her head.

"No," she stepped up to him, "you owe me a garment."

She jammed her fingers between the two halves of his shirt where it fastened and yanked it apart. A few buttons popped off, scattering this way and that. Her lips parted at the sight of him, his smooth alabaster skin made her insides coil.

They made quick work of the rest of their clothing and in short order, stood in his study appraising each other's nakedness. He really was something out of a roman temple, except for the very large, excited male part of his anatomy. A sort of bashfulness caused her whole body to flush as she wondered what he thought about her in turn. Did she please him? She was very slender, small in stature and did not possess the overflowing breasts she had seen in the bawdy paintings at Madam Adler's.

"My dear wife," he drew her in contact with his naked flesh, his manhood bumped into her belly, "you seem apprehensive all of a sudden."

She swallowed. "I-It's just . . . I am, erm, malnourished compared to some of the . . . working women at the brothel. Is my . . . I mean, d-do you find my body . . . acceptable?"

Sherlock's hands cupped her face. His thumbs slid along her jaw. His light, greenish-blue irises contracted as he gazed down at her.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," he murmured, "you are of such flawless design, I could almost believe in a higher power."

Once again, a spasm seized Molly's internal walls. His mouth met hers again, more controlled and deliberate as he stepped against her and the light dusting of hair on his chest teased her nipples. He walked her backwards towards the red settee and urged down onto into plush fabric. Sherlock kneeled down, lightly curled his fingers over her thighs and spread her legs. A cool waft of air whispered over the hot juncture between her legs and she felt very exposed all of a sudden. Goosebumps prickled her flesh everywhere and she flushed again.

"Sh-Sherlock . . ."

He leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss over her lips. "Molly, I rushed you last time. I was . . . greedy. I want you to have a better experience."

Molly blinked lazily. "It can be better? I don't think that's possible-"

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "Mm, God, it's so tempting to say no to that and just rut you, my dear, but the answer is, in fact, yes. It can be so much better. Will you allow me to show you?"

There was a gravelly tone to his voice, a secret timber that promised heavenly delight. As much as she wanted to be filled by him, to grip him as he impaled her, she also wanted to know what truth lay in the vibrations of his words.

"Yes," she whispered, "yes, show me."

With that, his calloused hand slid down her front and paused on her chest. He then pushed her back onto the settee until she laid on her back. Her breath hitched as he gripped her hips and pulled her to the open end of the seat. His hands slid under her naked rear, hooking her legs over his arms, and spread them until they were very wide. Next thing she knew, he was lowering his head.

"Wh-What are you doing?" She gasped.

He licked his lips. "I'm going to taste you, Molly."

"Oh . . . oh!"

She had never heard of that. Her mind frantically poured over her medical training. Why had she never heard of that? Sexual relations between a man and a woman was for procreation. Tasting her served no purpose-

"Aah!" A warm blast of heat from his breath precipitated the even hotter invasion of his tongue as it stroked between her folds. "My word!"

A tremor rippled through her body as his tongue lapped again. Her sex prickled along its length as it contracted. She almost squished his head before she stopped herself. Her legs trembled as she fought to keep them open, his hair wisped against the delicate flesh on the inside of her thighs. Little darts of sensation shot out from the sensitive hub near the top of her apex each time he passed over it with his wet, probing flesh. He continued to do this until she writhed beneath him, clutching fruitlessly at the settee. Then, when she thought he could torment her no further, he sucked on that same bundle of nerves. Her back arched off the seat as she cried out and nearly detonated. She felt very close to losing herself but it ebbed. He lifted his head.

"Don't fight it," he murmured, sliding a finger into her body, "give in, my lovely."

He dipped his head again and in addition to his fingers invading her most intimate place, his tongue assaulted her juncture again. She felt a tenseness wind every muscle in her body. She squeezed her eyes shut and focussed on that little point of excruciating pleasure. Over and over it flared until it flashed into an almost blinding light behind her eyes. Like a sparking, twirling firecracker, it seemed to take flight and next thing she knew, it exploded. Her hips propelled upwards with the force of her release. Pulses ricocheted up through her body from that bursting point and then she collapsed back down, quivering like pudding in a bowl.

At some point, she must have clasped his hand because she felt him holding it. After several moments of lying there, catching her breath, her eyes fluttered open. The look on Sherlock's face was dark and concentrated. Her face flamed under his gaze.

"Did you enjoy that?" He asked.

She nodded shyly, a bit embarrassed for losing complete control of her faculties. She looked down at his kneeling form. He was still very aroused.

"And you?" She asked.

His eyes narrowed. "I enjoyed it as well."

"B-But you're still . . ."

His brows twitched. "I am. Would you like to assist me to dispel it?"

Molly swallowed. "Very much so."

Sherlock rose over her.

"What can I do?" She asked, staring up at him.

His eyes shifted back and forth as he scanned the scene. He held out his hand. She took it and he helped her stand. Then, unexpectedly, he turned her around. She felt his engorged member nudge her backside.

"Would you kneel on the settee for me?" He asked huskily in her ear.

Molly's belly quivered. He wanted to take her from behind like a stallion? Her knees felt a little weak as she contemplated the primitive nature of that position. Without a word, she crawled forward on the low seat and leaned over its raised back. She jumped as his large hands wrapped around her waist and he positioned himself at her backside.

"Don't worry, my darling," he rubbed himself at her entrance, "you are more than ready for me."

She felt incredibly wanton for being so excited by what he was about to do. Her body began to throb again in anticipation as the blunt head of his staff pushed between her folds. Even though she was very damp, almost dripping, her body still had to adjust to his girth. He pushed slowly until the ridge of his tip breached her opening and popped inside. A low moan escaped her lips. Her sex kept washing with sensation and her womb shuddered. She felt so very wicked for enjoying the way he was taking her but threw her head back anyways.

"Sherlock," she breathed, "please."

He cursed and thrust the rest of the way until his hips slammed into hers. Molly cried out in satisfaction at the fully embedded feel of him. She pushed back on him as he withdrew and thrust again. The release she'd had earlier had never really gone away. The embers of it still fizzed and blazed to life. Soon, Sherlock was truly rutting her like a wild animal, his fingers biting into her flesh as over and over he took her to the edge. He seemed to get stiffer inside her as he plundered her body and she became more aware of the details of his steely member including the ripple of a vein as it slid past her entrance time and again.

All at once, it was too much for Molly. Her bum bounced off his tummy one last time and another explosion tore through her body, this one more intense than the last. She dropped her head to the settee back as her body convulsed. Above her, Sherlock sucked in a breath, jolted into her a final time and his member spasmed and began to pulse his release as well. There was something that made her salivate feeling the spurt of his shaft so near her trembling, most sensitive flesh. He braced himself on the seat back either side of her after his orgasm and rested there, every so often his hips would jerk.

After a few minutes, Sherlock withdrew, collapsed to the seat next to her and then pulled her to his lap where he kissed her once more. Then, his finger plunged into her hair and he coaxed her head to his shoulder. He cradled her there, caressing her hip and thigh as they both recovered from their marital activities. He kissed the top of her head.

"Are you . . . well?"

Molly sighed contentedly. She was beginning to doze.

"Of course," she yawned. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just that I feel like I lose all sense around you," he said gruffly, "that I turn into a beast."

"Oh," she giggled. "Oh, I quite liked that, actually. I did not know relations between a man and woman could be so delectably . . . savage?"

Sherlock went quiet a moment and the rise and fall of his chest lengthened. His fingers stilled and clutched her leg.

"You continue to surprise me, my naughty little wife," he said in a low tone, his lips brushed her temple. "However, you should use more caution when choosing your words."

Molly looked up at him and smiled cheekily. "Oh? Really?"

His eyes slanted down at her and his lips twitched. "Indeed."

"Why?" She whispered in anticipation.

Sherlock heaved in a breath. "Because I might have you again if you keep speaking thusly. Us savage beasts have quite the appetites."

Molly sat up and smirked at him playfully. "Oh, don't you remember? I'm the one who needs feeding tonight, Sherlock Holmes, and you did promise that I would not go hungry."

His eyes sparked as he scanned her face. "Hmm. Yes . . . yes, I did."


	18. Chapter 18

Humor could be found in the most unusual places, John thought as he tried not to smile. Certainly, he shouldn't find an autopsy amusing but then, he had never bore witness to a spectacle such as this before. In addition to himself and Sherlock, a dozen other spectators jammed a small operating theater on the ground floor of New Westminster's principle Hospital, the Royal Columbian. A the center of the room bending over a long, sturdy pine table, Dr. Molly Holmes stood atop a wooden crate as she dissected a decaying body with the finesse of an artist. The scene was rather gothic. Molly and her project were illuminated by an overhead lamp shrouded with a large, reflective bowl that concentated its light on its subjects while casting deep, dark shadows in the rest of the room. Standing room for the show was tight, someone bumped into John as they jockeyed for a better view.

"Erm, forgive me, Dr. Watson," Constable Phillip Anderson said in a low voice. "Um, isn't this a routine you would usually perform for Mr. Holmes?"

John glanced up at the officer who stared straight forwards with a fascinated expression on his long face as he twirled his thin mustache. His enlarged, blue eyes were fixed on the diminutive docotor as she worked.

"Oh, I'm quite happy to sit this one out," John replied with a smirk, "and truly, my expertise is with the living. I've been told Dr. Holmes used to do this sort of thing in London for the Metropolitan Police Force."

He didn't mention that he did not paticularly enjoy handling corpses. He had seen enough death in the wars in Africa. Whereas Molly had a sort of invigorated look on her face.

Constable Anderson nodded absentmindedly. "Wait 'til the missus hears about this. It's been all Dr. Holmes this and Dr. Holmes that since they met."

John chuckled. "Well, she is rather unique, isn't she?"

"Yes . . . quite."

John chuckled internally as he glanced past Anderson to Chief Constable Lestrade who himself, appeared both perplexed and impressed. Every once in a while, his nose would wrinkle in a sort of awed disgust. Sherlock, however, grinned gleefully with his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked back and forth on his feet. His eyes were alight with a pride as a pair of nurses whispered animatedly between themselves at his left. In fact, his manner was very much that of a cheeky raven with his chin up and chest puffed. Molly was oblivious to the reaction of her observers as she expertly carved open the lower leg of her cadaver. She stood atop a wooden crate wearing a borrowed pair of coachman's goggles, leather gloves and smock from the cannery over top a well-worn nurses' gown. Her brown tresses were haphazardly stuffed up under a cap. She was smeared with all manner of putrid, black biological fluids but John had to admit, there was something incredibly charming about her morbid appearance.

"So, is this going to be the new arrangement?" John heard Lestrade ask Sherlock in a gruff voice.

The corner of Sherlock's lip twitched up and he turned his shoulders towards the Chief. "Think of me as a full service investigator complete with . . . hmm . . . um, what should we call her speciality, Dr. Watson?"

John raised his brows. "Ah, well, she's examining the tissues and organs of the corpse. I believe that's known as pathology."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought.

"Yes, I am now in possession of a pathologist," he pronounced to the giggles of the nurses.

Molly's carving came to a stop. She straightened, blew a stray strand of hair from her face and raised a brow at her husband. With deliberatation, she rested the back of her hand on her hip with knife in her grasp pointed at the ceiling. She didn't say anything, just stared expectantly at her husband with eyes magnified by the lenses of her goggles until he dropped his chin. The nurses sucked in breaths in anticipation. Sherlock's lips parted and he blinked a few times in penitence.

He cleared his throat. "Ahem, sorry, a correction. I am fortunate to have a pathologist so readily available to consult with, when she deems fit to offer her expertise, that is."

John snorted and twisted away a moment as his shoulders shook in silent laughter. When he turned back, Chief Lestrade had removed his cap and was wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. Sherlock glowered at each of them with a deep furrow between his brows. Molly tilted her head, flicked some filth from her knife to the floor and resumed her work. After a few moments she sighed as she gazed down at the dead woman.

"Remodeling of the bone," she muttered to no one in particular. "It was broken in the past and healed, albeit, not well. This is almost the exact type of injury Edie described her sister suffering. Also, her cheekbone appears to have mended from a fracture which is another consistency with Edie's account. I believe we can confidently identify this woman as Gertie Friesen."

Molly paused a moment and drew in a breath. When she spoke again, her voice quivered.

"Damn."

Sherlock stepped forward quickly. "Is there anything else you see, my love?"

John's head whipped up. Neither Sherlock nor Molly seemed conscious of his use of the endearment but to John, it was an unexpected indication of the depths of his friend's feelings. Sherlock Holmes was more than infatuated with his wife. He was besotted, and it was little wonder why. Morbid Molly was perfect for him in every way. The man would probably never encounter another woman with the same macabre predilictions.

Molly sniffled. "I am afraid I won't be able to tell you much more . . ."

Her voice drifted off a moment. Then her brow wrinkled in thought.

"Although, my father was able to determine where a poisoned man's last meal was once by looking at his stomach contents. He pieced together the remnants of ravioli in his stomach and recognized it as being a signature handmade pasta from a particular restaurant. The police then questioned and arrested a cook for the murder. Turned out, the murderer was an ex-employee bitter at being fired," she smiled sadly in reminiscence then looked up with a nod of her head. "My father was a brilliant, brilliant man. I w-wish you could have known him."

Sherlock did not seem to know how to respond. He looked nervously at John and then coughed. Molly closed her eyes, took a few breaths and then smiled more brightly.

"In any event, it wouldn't hurt to check what's in Gertie's tummy. If it's not too degraded we might learn something about her last meal."

* * *

Molly pushed her melancholoy thoughts about her father aside, swallowed another lump in her throat and resumed peeling back layers of dead tissue in a quest for more knowledge. However, the inside of her dead woman was in very poor condition. It was difficult to discern different structures in and amongst the decomposing organs of her abdomen. Eventually, though, Molly was able to locate and dissect the stomach. At first glance, she could not see much as she flipped a flap of it aside. Whatever Gertie had eaten was unrecognizable after weeks of putrifaction. Molly poked around a bit with the edge of her knife. Just as she was about to give up on her exploration, she felt something tick off the end of her blade. She repeated her movement and felt the same tick of metal on metal. She tried to tease the object to the surface but retrieving it with the knife point proved impossible.

She looked up at her observers. "There's something in here. Just give me a second."

Molly put her knife aside, reached in to the cavity with her leather encapsulated gloves, and swirled her fingers in the mess. She was rewarded with the discovery of something hard and round. She extracted it but as she did, she happened across something else that was pointier but not as substantial. She set the round object down on the table and fished out the second object. When she was satisfied there was nothing additional to find, she turned her attention back to her discoveries. On the table next to the body a gold ring glinted from a puddle of filth next to what looked like a tightly folded bit of paper. Molly scooped them up and poured some water from a flask over her discoveries. Her breath caught as the goo washed away from the shiny ring. It looked almost identical to her wedding band with a very similar Haida etching in the band. Her hand trembled at the odd coincidence. How did Gertie come to possess this piece of jewellery? Why did she swallow it?

"Molly?" A deep voice enquired.

She glanced up quickly at Sherlock. A tingling crept up her neck but she could not explain why.

"I-I'm fine," she responded. "Um, I found this."

She cleaned the ring more thoroughly and dried it off before holding it up in her palm. A scowl tightened Sherlock's forehead and pursed his lips as he took it from her hand.

"What is it?" John popped up beside him.

"A ring," Sherlock muttered as he turned it over, his scowl deepened.

John snorted. "I can see that!"

Chief Lestrade elbowed his way to the forefront as people tried to crowd closer.

"Let me take a look," he interjected.

Constable Anderson snapped from his trance and joined them. "A ring, you say?"

Molly drew in a breath. She tried not to think about the ring but it niggled at the back of her mind. She looked down at her other discovery to distract herself even as she began to tremble. She tried to unfold the stiff paper but was unable with her gloves on. She rinsed it several more times and slipped off a glove to tease it open with a fingernail. The paper unfurled like a reluctant flower on the examining table and revealed itself to be a photograph. Molly felt the blood drain from her face as she gazed upon the image and recieved a second shock. Her knees buckled and she had to clutch the table for support.

"Molly!" Sherlock was by her side in an instant to grasp her elbow.

She stepped down off her crate but weakness in her limbs caused her to slump. John quickly joined Sherlock and supported her other elbow.

"Molly," the smaller man prodded. "What is it?"

"Th-That picture," she whispered.

It was the very same portrait of Sherlock she had been sent in England, the one Tom Woodley had used to lure her across the Atlantic and North America.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade's voice cut through the confusion as people jabbered all around them. "What the hell is a dead woman doing with a photograph of you in her stomach?"

Molly looked up at her husband's profile. His lips were set in a grim line. His face had lost what little colour it had. His eyes met hers briefly and darted away again. She wanted to be reassured by him but there was an evasiveness in his expression. She squeezed her eyes shut a moment. When she reopened them, the tetchy look on his face remained. She felt sick to her stomach.

"Excuse me," Sherlock mumbled. "John, could you see to Molly?"

With that, he dropped his hand from her elbow and left the operating theatre. She stared after him, too stunned to know what to do with herself.

"Anderson!" John barked. "Assist Molly, please. I must go after Sherlock."

Next thing Molly knew, she was passed off to Constable Anderson whose mouth had yet to close. She watched John follow in Sherlock's footsteps as he too, raced from the room.

* * *

"Sherlock! Stop!"

The wooden floors of the outside corridor screeched and groaned as beneath John's feet as he ran after his friend. The large man moved quickly towards the world outside of the hospital. Sherlock continued out the front door, down the steps towards where their mounts were hitched as if a fire lit at his heels. John caught up to him as he fumbled with the loose knot on Redbeard's leather reins.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's hands paused. Finally, he whirled to face John, his jacket spun around him in a flurry.

"Why aren't you with Molly?" He demanded.

John leaned forward on his legs, panting. "Why aren't you? What are you doing?"

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face. "I needed air."

John shook his head. "B-But, damn, Sherlock, you have to know how this looks. You just abandoned your wife after she discovered a portrait of you in a dead prostitute's stomach."

Sherlock made an exasperated cry and kicked a rock across the gravel drive. "I bloody well know how it looks, John! Damnit! Damnit all to hell!"

John straightened up and held open his hands in confusion. "Then what on God's green earth are you doing? Why are you running away?"

Sherlock teetered and then leaned against the hitching rail. Redbeard huffed a breath from his nostrils and nudged the side of his master's head. Sherlock pushed the beast's nose away.

"Not now, old boy," he muttered.

The horse sputtered and resumed smacking his lips. For a moment, Sherlock sat there in deep thought, his hands at the sides of his head.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's head came up. "Forgive me, John, you saw the picture. Do you recall that it is the same one Molly was given from Tom Woodley?"

"I do," John murmured. "I don't suppose you ever determined why he did that?"

Sherlock's head hung down. He shook it weakly.

"No. Those answers, much like the mystery that is Gertie Friesen's death, continue to elude me. I-I am starting to feel set upon, John. There is a game afoot here, one I did not even know was being played. Worst of all, it appears to be a game with no rules or boundaries," he looked back up with eyes that glistened with emotion. "I failed her, John. That's why I left. I couldn't bear the look in her eyes."

John's face contorted in a confused frown. "H-How did you fail Molly? I don't understand."

Sherlock groaned. "Don't you see? I let myself become distracted. I've been selfish. Meanwhile, there's a vicious killer about that I have done little to nothing to apprehend. What's more, someone is connecting me to fraudulent marriages and suspicious deaths. What if this is all meant to be a frame up of some sort? How do I protect Molly if I'm arrested? Christ, I've been a bloody fool."

Sherlock stood up with a renewed determination and mounted his horse. "John, please do me a favor and see that Molly gets home safely. I've dithered long enough."

John stepped closer and grabbed Redbeard's reins. "My friend, don't leave just yet. You really ought to take her home yourself "

Sherlock glanced towards the hospital as Redbeard pawed anxiously at the ground. He jerked the reins from John's hands and urged the large steed to turn away from the hitch.

"Make my apologies to my wife," he directed. "Give her leave to eat without me if I am not home for dinner . . . and breakfast as well, for that manner. I do not know how long I will be."

"Christ, man, you are going to cast suspicion on yourself if you depart right now. Stay and reassure the officers. Don't give them reason to doubt you."

Sherlock lifted his chin and flipped his collar up. "I cannot. I have no time to waste. By this time tomorrow, this discovery will have been disseminated around New Westminster in the most lurid manner possible. I have to keep ahead of the gossip. Otherwise, I might find my answers have dried up."

"B-But . . ."

The detective tapped his steed's sides and Redbeard lurched forwards. "John, enough! Just do as I ask! I have no more time for this. I must go."

With that, Sherlock snapped his reins and he and his mount thundered away.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock brushed rivulets of water from his long coat underneath the awning outside Carruthers' Jewellery. The hammering rain on the tin roof above him was so loud, he thought he might as well be standing next to a waterfall. He removed his wide-brimmed, well-oiled hat and shook it off. The rain had pummelled him so thoroughly, he was soaked through. However, at least his head was dry. From behind him, he heard a snort. When he looked back, Redbeard's head hung low and one eye peaked out from beneath his bedraggled red mane.

"Sorry, old boy," Sherlock murmured. "I will ensure Wiggins give you a good rubdown when we return home. Perhaps I will even allow him to purchase you some more dried beets tomorrow."

Redbeard's ear swiveled in his direction and his head perked up. An excited breath rattled his lips. Sherlock pointed at him emphatically.

"However, you are not to eat more than a handful, you greedy sod," he chided.

Redbeard snorted again as if scoffing and shook his head.

Sherlock would normally laugh at his steed's comical expression, but he was still unnerved by Molly's discovery during her examination of Gertie Friesen. Try as he might, he could not forget the stricken look on her face when she had seen his portrait emerge from the belly of a dead woman. Sherlock shook off a tremor.

"I will rejoin you shortly. Try to behave."

He shook his jacket one last time and then pushed open the door to the jeweller's. The overhead bell jingled loudly in the quiet shop. Carruthers' was a rather modest outfit. There were a few cheap silver baubles displayed but otherwise, everything else was locked away. George Carruthers emerged from the back room looking down at his hands as he wiped them on a cloth. He was dressed similarly to every other gentleman in New Westminster in plain brown tweeds. He sported a thick mustache and wire-framed spectacles. The only outward indication of his First Nations heritage was his long black hair secured back with a tie. When he looked up, his steps stuttered to a stop.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Mr. Carruthers," Sherlock nodded curtly. "Good Afternoon."

His focus intensified on the slightly older man who appeared anxious in his presence. Obviously, Sherlock's call was not entirely welcome.

"Wh-What brings you by?" The jeweller's gaze flicked to Sherlock's left hand. "Is there a problem, Mr. Holmes?"

"Interesting," Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, "now, why would you immediately assume my visit would be a portent of difficulty?"

Mr. Carruthers' eyes skittered sideways. "No reason, Mr. Holmes, no reason. How may I be of assistance?"

Sherlock strolled around the shop. He stopped at one of the wood and glass cases and leaned over to inspect the merchandise.

"Hmm, you are right, though. I am concerned about something. See, when I commissioned you to make my wife's wedding band, you assured me it would be unique, that no other lady would ever wear anything similar in the future. You did not tell me that you had, in fact, already fashioned such an item for a previous client."

The jeweller's face paled. "I-I don't know what you are talking about."

Sherlock drew himself up to his full intimidating height and stepped towards the man. His blood was beginning to course with angry heat. This man knew something, he was complicit in a scheme that had opened a fissure between Molly and himself.

"Oh, I think you do. I think you are privy to exactly of what I speak," Sherlock hissed. "Tell me what you know of a ring etched with the symbol of a raven, the trickster."

The remaining colour drained from George Carruthers' face. "N-Nothing nothing I swear!"

Sherlock swung his hands in front of him and cracked his knuckles. "I don't have time for games. You know of my skills, Mr. Carruthers. You cannot deny you carved exactly what I have described. Do you want to know how I came to be aware of this ring's existence?"

Sweat had broken out on the man's brow. "Mr. Holmes-"

Sherlock grasped handfuls of the man's shirt and jerked him forwards. "My wife found it in the stomach of a dead prostitute."

Carruthers mouth hung open a moment before his lip started to tremble. "Mr. Holmes, y-you don't understand . . . I also have a wife, and children . . . I-I have obligations. I fear for my safety if I discuss this."

Sherlock tightened his hold and shook him once. "What makes you think you are any safer if you don't discuss it?"

"You wouldn't hurt me," he returned shakily. "You're an honorable man."

"I might be honorable, Mr. Carruthers, but do not think for a moment that means I am good."

With a grunt, Sherlock shoved him away. Carruthers stumbled back into a display case. For several seconds, Sherlock tried to calm himself by steadying his breathing. The only thing preventing him from beating the jeweller until he gave up his secrets was envisioning his wife's disapproval for such an act. He could not afford to upset her any further. Yet, he dreaded returning home without any answers to alleviate her fears. He needed for Carruthers to talk.

Once more, Sherlock moved to menace the jeweller. "Tell me who commissioned that piece and why. You do not want the Holmes as enemies, I promise you that. My brother's wife is the most influential matriarch in these parts. If you ever hope to sell another piece of jewellery in this city, you had better divulge what you know."

Carruthers began to laugh nervously. "Oh, the Holmes and their influence. Yes, you think you all are untouchable. Well, a new era is coming. You are your brother are relics from the past, remnants of the crown and England's dwindling influence. Have your Mrs. Anthea Holmes do her worst. We will see how much her opinions matter by the end of the year."

Sherlock's control slipped. In an instant, he slammed the man to the floorboards so forcefully the impact rattled the walls. He wanted to grievously injure him for his veiled threats but settled instead on digging a finger into the muscle just beneath the man's shoulder near his armpit. The jeweller's face contorted and he cried out. Sherlock knew how to make one experience the most excruciating pain without leaving a mark. There were benefits to being a trained fighter and having a former military physician as a best friend.

"That is my kin you speak of," he growled as he leaned over the writhing man. "Whatever this all is, whatever you are mixed up in, I will find out. Do you know that there is not anything I would not do for my family?"

Carruthers' eyes snapped open and he heaved himself upwards even as he fought against the pressure Sherlock exerted on his shoulder. "Just as there is nothing I would not do for this land? This land stolen from my mother's people by the likes of you and yours? To hell with you, Sherlock Holmes. Aaaaag!"

Sherlock twisted his finger deeper into his flesh. "Oh, Mr. Carruthers, I will personally drag you down to hell with me if need be. Give me a name. Who did you make that ring for? Who!?"

Still, the man stubbornly refused to speak. Exasperated, Sherlock retrieved his gun from his holster at his side and pressed it against the man's temple. Carruthers' movements stilled.

"Y-You wouldn't shoot me! Y-You are bluffing," he stammered.

"Would I not? Come now, you've heard the stories about me. The ones they repeat late at night when lips are loose from imbibing in too many spirits," Sherlock rumbled in his deepest tone, jamming the muzzle into the jeweller's flesh before dropping his voice to a harsh rasp. "' _He's an assassin_ ,' the braver ones will whisper, ' _he knows how to make men disappear'_. Well, Mr. Carruthers, care to find out if the rumors are true? Either way, I will have my satisfaction."

Of course, Sherlock had no intention of shooting the man but he wasn't averse to threatening him within an inch of his life.

He cocked the gun. "Well?"

The jeweller broke then. "C-Claude Ravache. I made it for a man named Claude Ravache. He's a barrister up near Port Hammond."

Sherlock did not recognize the name but anyone practicing law would be known by Mycroft. It suddenly became pertinent he spoke with his brother.

* * *

Carruther's coughed up little more useful information. He stubbornly insisted that Mr. Ravache's procurement of the ring was the extent of his knowledge. Sherlock did not waste any more time lingering once it became apparent he would not squeeze any more blood from that particular stone. So, he left the jeweller's and rode hard for Mycroft's home on Second Street near Queen's park. The rain refreshed its assault. Riding through the sheeting deluge was like dashing through his new shower with the water valves fully open. By the time he arrived to his brother's home, he was sopping wet. Even his hair had not been saved by his hat which had finally been immersed long enough to become porous. After leaving Redbeard at Mycroft's stable to be tended by a groom, he trudged to the rear of the home and slipped inside via the servant's entrance. It did not take long for the staff to come to his assistance. Mr. Gunn, Mycroft's long-serving butler and valet, procured a change of clothing for Sherlock.

"Have you informed my brother I am here?" Sherlock asked once he was redressed and reasonably dry.

"I have, sir. He's busy at present. He has a visitor. He said he would entertain you shortly."

Sherlock's brow twisted and he tossed the towel he used to dry his hair aside. "A visitor? Well, tell him that it is imperative I speak with him immediately. Actually, never mind, I will communicate that to him myself."

He stalked out of the kitchen and into the main part of the house with the elderly Mr. Gunn protesting at his heels. Before he could make it much further beyond the great entrance with its polished marble floors and imported stone columns, Anthea lumbered down the sweeping marble stairs. She was garbed in a pale blue day dress. Her rounded belly was too large to hide anymore through the layers of fabric. Her chestnut brown hair was swept up to reveal rosy cheeks. She really did "glow" as pregnant women were so often described. He could not help but offer her a smile. If ever there was a woman he greatly admired before he met his wife, Anthea Holmes was that lady.

"I thought I recognized that baritone," came the amused tinkle of her voice.

Sherlock bowed quickly as he took her hand. "Sister."

" _Little_ brother," she replied with a smirk. "This is a welcome surprise. I have not seen much of you, lately, but of course you have been busy."

"My apologies, Anthea," he murmured. "Married life is a lot more . . . consuming than I ever imagined."

"Isn't it though?" She gave him a wink and rubbed a hand over her distended abdomen. "Now, my dear Sherlock, you need to bring your lovely new bride here. Her visit is quite overdue, much like myself. I am dreadfully bored. Mycroft has forbidden me from all my usual work. He is afraid I will give birth at the courthouse."

Sherlock quickly kissed her hand. "I will be sure to ask Molly to visit you soon. Please forgive my brother. He adores you and wishes only for your safety. I would demand the same from Molly were she in your condition."

Anthea smiled and wagged her brows. "You might try. It remains to be seen if you would succeed."

He chuckled. "I am sure I would. Erm, speaking of my brother, I am told he has a visitor but I urgently need to speak with him."

She held out her arm. "Well, then let us go interrupt him as you were planning to do that regardless, hmm? Perhaps he will be less annoyed if I am a party to it."

Sherlock took her arm and escorted her to Mycroft's study. He didn't bother knocking (as that would negate an opportunity for him to irritate his older sibling). He just pushed open the door and strolled in with Anthea. He stopped almost immediately when he saw who sat in the chair opposite Mycroft. It was the professor he fought with the other night, James Moriarty. When Mycroft saw Anthea, his eyes lit with surprise and he jumped up from his seat next to the blazing fireplace. He then hurried to his wife's side with a mask of concern on his face.

"What is it my dear? Are you unwell?"

As Mycroft fussed over his wife, Sherlock and the professor assessed each other. Finally, the dark haired, bright eyed man stood languidly, adjusted his smart grey waistcoat and sauntered towards Sherlock with an outstretched hand. His patrician face still bore faint shadows of bruising from their match.

"Sherlock Holmes, hello, I am thrilled to make your acquaintance and get to know you," he twitched his brows and smiled with one side of his mouth. "Well, proper acquaintance at any rate. I am Professor James Moriarty, but I am sure you knew that already."

Sherlock felt his nose wrinkle as he shook the man's hand. There was something in the sing-song, softness of his tone that caused Sherlock's skin to crawl.

"We have fought, Professor," he said slowly. "That is all the acquaintance I need to ascertain one's character."

The smile broadened over Moriarty's face. He nodded his head several times in an exaggerated motion.

"True enough," he rubbed the side of his face. "I learned a great deal about you. Heh, heh, you're a difficult one to knock down, Mr. Holmes."

"And you are quite slippery," Sherlock mumbled.

The Professor continued to smile but his eyes narrowed and wrinkled around the edges. Mycroft returned from accompanying his wife from the room with a scowl on his face. Moriarty grinned and tilted his head in his direction.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I think I will take my leave since it seems you have family business to attend to," the professor said before Mycroft could speak.

Mycroft raised his brows. "Yes, indeed. Your visit has been most informative. Thank you."

Professor Moriarty dipped his head then looked up at Sherlock for a moment. "Good Day, Mr. Holmes. Oh, and if I don't get an opportunity to say this later, congratulations are your recent nuptials."

Sherlock nodded even as his eyes constricted. He watched Mycroft escort the professor out of the study then plunked himself down in one of the chairs near the fireplace to stave off the chill he still felt from his wet ride. He leaned forwards and rubbed his hands together. A million questions swirled through his mind. What business did the new professor have with his magistrate brother? Why did he seem like he had an agenda during their every interaction? It was another mystery plaguing his thoughts and more questions to add to the ones that had already gone begging. He felt abnormally confused by the loose threads twisting and flailing in directionless winds.

Mycroft's return took longer than expected. When he finally pushed through the door of the study with a grim look on his face, he was not alone. Behind him stood Chief Lestrade and Constable Anderson.

"Brother mine," Mycroft ground out. "These officers would like to question you."

Sherlock pressed his lips together. He thought this might happen.

"I imagine they do," he muttered.

Mycroft turned back towards Lestrade and Anderson. "What is this about?"

Lestrade stepped forward with a sigh. "Sorry to disturb you at your home, Your Honor, but this is of the gravest matter. Your brother is a suspect in the murder of Gertie Friesen, a prostitute."


	20. Chapter 20

Over and over the scene played in Molly's head; the ring, the unfolding of that picture, and the evasive look on Sherlock's face. She felt as if she were watching a silent film strip at the end of its run that kept flipping around and around on its reel.

"Molly, my dear," The lilt of Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through her thoughts, "you have a visitor."

Molly blinked several times as her hands came into focus on either side of her plate of uneaten dinner. She realized in that moment, she had not moved in quite some time. Her fingers were pale, cold and when she moved them, she felt as if she were flexing dried grass husks. She looked up at Mrs. Hudson who had a wrinkle of concern between her brows.

Molly coughed. "Wh-Who is it?"

Mrs. Hudson attempted a smile. "It's Mary Morstan, my child. Are you up for a visitor or should I tell her you are not feeling well?"

Molly rose from her chair and rubbed her hands together to try to return some life to them. "No, I will receive her in the parlor. W-Would you be so kind as to make us some tea, please? I-I . . . I do not know if I trust my own hands to the task."

Mrs. Hudson bustled towards her and embraced her quickly. "What has that silly lad of mine done this time?"

Molly rested her head on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder briefly. "He didn't do anything, Mum."

Mrs. Hudson held her at arm's length a moment. Molly averted her eyes as the older woman studied her intently.

"Oh, that's just it, is it not? He pulled a Sherlock and disappeared at the most inopportune moment. Is that why John escorted you home in his stead? Blast that boy!"

"I am certain he has a reasonable explanation," Molly's voice was unconvincingly faint. "Pay me no heed. I am just an overwrought new bride who probably expects too much of her husband."

The matriarch's brow twisted up. Her lips pursed. She was not amused.

"I highly doubt that."

Molly shrugged. Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue and then shook her head.

"I will go settle Mary then and fetch you some tea. A visit from a friendly face will probably do you some good."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Molly sighed.

As Mrs. Hudson tootled off, Molly surveyed herself in the mirror over the hearth in the dining room. Her face was almost as pale as her hands. She glanced at the mantle clock. It was approaching seven pm and she had not seen hide nor hair of her husband. The earlier events of the day weighed heavily on her mind. She still didn't know what to make of them.

Instinctually, she felt as if Sherlock was an innocent in all this, that someone had used his picture most grievously to trick not one, but two unsuspecting females. Molly could envision Madam Adler's story to Edie about her sister running off with a man being at least partially true. Perhaps Gertie had been lured in a similar manner as Molly herself had been with some pretty letters and a picture of an impossibly handsome man. Might Molly have ended up a naked corpse floating down the Fraser River if not for the intervention of Dr. Watson and Sherlock? She shuddered at the picture her mind conjured.

Yet, her husband had behaved very oddly when she had made her discovery. Then, he had gone off with not a word of explanation. John had tried to justify his behavior in the carriage ride home, but it only served to reinforce how little she actually knew of her husband. For John had lots of stories to tell of similar incidences, but Molly did not have the benefit of experiencing them first hand.

With a shaky inhalation, she inspected herself one last time in the mirror then pinched her cheeks to give them a hint of colour. When Molly finally went to greet Mary in the parlor, her friend was not alone. John sat very near her on the dimpled leather sofa. Molly stopped and began to backtrack when she saw him reach for Mary's face. However, Mary spyed her and then shyly twitched her brows at John. She then gestured towards the entryway with her chin. He turned his head to see Molly and flushed pink.

"Oh, sorry, right then, I'll just leave you two to it," John stammered.

He jumped up, bowed to Mary and then nodded to Molly as he hurried from the room. Mary's gaze followed him with amusement. It was no wonder John could not resist stealing a few minutes with the object of his affections. She looked very fetching wearing a ruffled, white shirtwaist over a grey, pinstriped skirt. A complimentary, decorative cap with a curling black feather sat atop her pinned coif. With an eager hand, she patted the empty seat next to her.

"Good evening, Molly," she frowned as she approached. "Hmm, I had some trepidation about visiting you at such late hour but now that I see you, I am glad I came here."

Molly arranged her skirts anxiously as she sat next to Mary. "I am sure I do not know what you are speaking about."

Mary sighed. "Molly, may I be blunt?"

Molly held her breath and nodded. Mary clasped her fingers together tightly.

"You look troubled," Mary observed. "Oh, Lord, and I know I am somewhat responsible for it. I feel as if I should have taken you under my wing myself instead of letting Sherlock Holmes strong-arm you into marriage."

"That's not what happened," Molly rushed out. "I married him knowing full well what I was getting myself into-"

"Did you? Molly . . ."

Mary's voice drifted off. She swallowed and glanced around, then lowered her tone to a near whisper. Her eyes were very large and frightened. Her hand shook as it moved to cover Molly's.

"I know this is going to sound terribly meddlesome and I am sorry if I cause you any offense, but I feel it is my duty to warn you."

A cold tingle spread through Molly's abdomen. Whatever Mary was about to say, it wasn't good.

"I learned something most disturbing today. You see, several ladies from the council and myself went to visit the prison to tend to the welfare of the female inmates just as we had talked about."

Molly pursed her lips briefly. "Oh? Oh, I had no idea you went there. I, erm, thought you wanted my help for that."

Mary nodded quickly. "We did, in fact. However, when I sent a note here yesterday, it was promptly returned with the explanation that you were otherwise engaged and not interested in joining us."

Molly rapidly blinked her eyes as her chin retracted. "I-I was assisting my husband with something b-but I would have tried to make time to join you as well, of course. He must have replied for me by mistake not knowing how important that visit was . . . "

Still, Molly felt a sinking sensation in her gut. Why would Sherlock reply to a message for her without letting her know anything about it? When she looked back up from the floor, Mary had an angry frown on her face.

"A mistake?" Mary muttered. "From what I know about Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't make mistakes. Molly, I think I know why he didn't want you to visit with the female inmates. There was one particular woman he was trying to prevent you from meeting."

Molly waited with bated breath for her to elaborate. Mary glanced around again as if worried about who might overhear. She picked her handbag up from off the floor and extracted what seemed to be a small piece of paper from within. Before Mary handed it to her, Molly recognized the scalloped edges and knew what it was. Still, the sudden lance to her guts when she saw the familiar portrait of her husband stole her breath.

"No!" Molly's thoughts spun. "Not that blasted picture!"

Mary dipped her head. "It was the oddest thing. Sally and I were commiserating over your absence as we were leaving the cell block. I can't remember who mentioned your name but we heard someone call out from a darkened cell. _'Did you say Holmes_?' She cried, ' _Holmes!_ '. Well, I had to stop and then beg a guard to let us speak with this creature locked in solitary confinement. She told us such a tale of woe, of being courted and promised marriage by none other than Sherlock Holmes from New Westminster only to be tricked into becoming a prostitute and eventually finding herself jailed by his magistrate brother. I was ready to dismiss her until she gave me this portrait. When I saw it, I nearly fell over."

Molly choked on a breath and strated shaking her head. She could not comprehend what she was hearing. It couldn't be true. There had to be a different explanation.

"B-But, it must be a lie or she is mistaken. I mean, perhaps she was also misled like myself by Tom Woodley using Sherlock's name and picture for his own gains."

The look in Mary's eyes was doubtful. "This woman insisted it was Sherlock himself who gave her the picture. She was so adamant that she'd had dealings with him and the way she described him, I cannot help but conclude she has indeed met the man. Her tale frightened me, Molly. Then I became frightened for you, especially considering Sherlock's reputation. I am not one to repeat gossip but I would be remiss in my duties to you as a friend if I did not implore you to be wary. There are stories about town, dark stories about your husband and what he did as an envoy of the British crown."

Molly felt her spine stiffen and the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. She didn't want to hear any more.

"This is all conjecture from second hand information," Molly said in a monotone voice as she tried to control her temper.

"Yes, but . . . "

Molly stood quickly. "But what? You seem all too eager to lay serious offenses at my husband's feet. You cite the questionable ramblings of some c-criminal and allusions of gossip not fit to be repeated. I am disappointed in you, Mary."

Mary rose slowly from her seat. She lifted her chin.

"I am sorry if you don't want to hear this, Molly, but I seek only to enlighten you-"

Molly exhaled a hot breath and stepped closer. "Like you have enlightened John about your circumspect activities in certain houses?"

Mary's eyes widened and she stumbled backwards as if struck in the face. Molly felt instantly ashamed for lashing out but Mary's denigration of her husband had caused her chest to ache. Her vision swam. She felt as she was going to vomit.

"I don't have to put up with this," Mary rasped. "I w-was trying to help you."

"You should just g-go," Molly stuttered. "You came here and said what you wanted to say. Please . . . leave."

Mary looked as if she was going to cry. Molly felt her own lip begin to tremble. Without another word, Mary gathered her belongings and fled just as Mrs. Hudson carried a tea tray into the room. Her head swivelled in Mary's direction as she went.

"Leaving so soon, Mary? Cannot you stay and enjoy a bit of tea?"

Molly watched Mary furiously lace her boots near the front door. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I cannot."

With one final, stiff nod to the both of them, she donned a cloak and left 221 Ash Street.

* * *

On the far side of New Westminster, Anthea plucked a book from the nearest bookshelf. She gazed down at the small tome, a collection of German poetry. Too tired to look for anything else, she sighed, waddled towards her favorite forest green velvet lounge next to the crackling fireplace and carefully lowered herself into its seat. She stuffed one of the throw pillows under the small of her back and covered her legs with a blanket that had been draped over the back of the lounge. As she wriggled into her seat, her baby turned over and stretched as if it too were finding a comfortable position. She patted her belly.

"You good, little one?" She asked with a laugh. "Ooh!"

She felt a jab in her rib in response.

"Naughty!"

Her companion settled after a flurry of kicks. With a contented sigh, Anthea opened the book and began flipping through its pages. She cared little what she actually read at that moment, she just wanted a distraction from the acrimonious dinner she had just sat through with her husband and brother-in-law. She read for a while and began drifting off when the closing of a door jolted her awake again.

"Forgive me," came the low tone of her husband's voice. "I did not mean to disturb you."

She scooted herself into a more sitting position. "No need to apologize. I am happy to see you. Has Sherlock gone off home then?"

"Yes, he has, my love."

Mycroft's voice and the way he addressed her so intimately still sent shivers down her spine. She smiled and reached for him. In a few short steps, he was at her side. Her heart swelled as he cradled her hand, closed his eyes briefly and kissed the inside of her wrist. She could still not believe this man loved her so. Years they had known one another and worked side-by-side. She had harbored an unrequited attachment to him for most of that time. It was only on the eve of her accepting the hand of a dull foreign diplomat that he had revealed his true feelings.

Her face heated as she recalled him requesting her presence one evening and then locking the door of his chambers at the courthouse.

 _"Baron Maupertuis has applied for a marriage license so that the pair of you might be wed. I am sorry, but I cannot allow you to marry this man and leave New Westminster."_

 _"Why?"_

 _He paused, curling his fingers into his palm on his desk. "Because the loss of you would break my heart."_

 _Anthea just froze in place, mouth agape. Mycroft came towards her with his gravest expression._

 _"I would not profess this except that I know you do not love this man. My darling, darling Anthea," he breathed, "if you want someone boring and self-important, you can have me. Please, I humbly offer myself as an alternative. I think in time, you could love me as I love you. If you might only consider-"_

 _She did not wait for him to finish. "I do love you."_

 _Mycroft blinked several times, searched her face and then stepped closer as if testing the veracity of her claim. When she didn't move away, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her tenderly._

That had been about a year ago, yet the moment his lips touched hers for the first time was forever etched in her mind.

"I must apologize again for the behavior of my little brother," Mycroft said, drawing Anthea from her reverie as he sat down on the lounge, "I hope this evening's events have not upset you."

She shook her head. "No, well, not so much that I find myself afflicted. I do worry about Sherlock, of course. He never makes it easy on himself, does he?"

Mycroft fussed with her blanket, rearranging it in order to better cover her feet. "No, indeed he does not. I only hope that my endorsement will carry enough weight to dispel the officer's suspicions."

"Surely they do not really believe Sherlock had anything to do with that woman's death? He has helped them out on countless occasions."

"Yes, but at present they have no other suspects and my brother decided to ride off almost immediately after the picture of him was found. Then he had the audacity insult and belittle the police when they finally tracked him down for questioning. Even the most stalwart of his defenders would have trouble reconciling his behavior. It is important now that he focus all his energy on solving this mystery as it may be more complex than just the murder of one woman."

Anthea felt her face tighten into a frown as she observed the troubled look on her husband's face. "Whatever do you mean?"

She touched the furrows on his forehead. As soon as her fingers smoothed over his flesh, the lines disappeared.

Mycroft leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Do not concern yourself, my darling. I am sure it is nothing."

She hiked a brow and fluttered her lashes. "When has that ever worked for you?"

He laughed softly. "Never, but I had to try. You know I would do anything to prevent you from experiencing even one moment of distress."

She jutted her bottom lip out in a mock pout and dropped her tone an octave. "Where was that attitude when I was pining away for you?"

His eyes darkened as he studied her face. "You did not really pine for me, did you?"

"Nearly every night for three years."

He exhaled a noisy sigh. "Why did you not say anything sooner? Why take up with that odious Baron?"

Anthea couldn't help running a hand down the front of his waistcoat and playing with his buttons. "Perhaps I was trying to make you jealous."

His lips set. She loved ruffling his feathers.

"You played me!"

"Not entirely. I was fully prepared to marry the Baron and go off and have a handful of his dimwit children if I could not have you. I was twenty-seven! I could not afford to wait any longer."

Mycroft swallowed. "For that, I am truly sorry, my love. Can you ever forgive me?"

She shrugged delicately. "Maybe. I might be inclined if you tell me what has you so vexed. What has Sherlock gotten himself mixed up in? How does it involve us?"

Her husband sighed again. "I do not know, my dear. Sherlock warned me about some grumblings attributed to George Carruthers. Apparently the jeweller harbors some resentment for anyone with the Holmes moniker. Whether that is a concern or not remains to be seen. You need not worry, though. Sherlock is not the only person who can do some digging."

Anthea nodded. "No, he's not."


	21. Chapter 21

Molly leaned on the heavy, wood frame of the parlor entrance at 221 Ash Street with her arms crossed as she surveyed her husband sleeping in his chair. A stream of light from the crack in the curtains backlit his dark locks. She rubbed her upper arms anxiously. This was becoming a troubling pattern, discovering Sherlock perfectly safe and slumbering in the morning after she had tossed and turned most of the night. At least on this morning his face wasn't black and blue. Yet, she felt infinitely more on edge because of what Mary had revealed to her the previous evening. Could her husband, this beautiful man, be a little bit not good?

She chewed her lip. Anyone so wickedly handsome could not be entirely virtuous. That wild tangle of hair, those sensuous lips, and the underlying sharpness of his bone structure- why, the devil himself must have approved Sherlock's design. Molly shivered as a tremor travelled from her toes to the top of her scalp where her skin tingled and tightened. Even at that moment when she was conflicted and a little fearful, she wanted nothing more than to rouse the snoozing demon and commit all sorts of wanton, unspeakable acts with him.

However, Molly knew she could not just ignore what Mary's warning. As much as she would like to pretend she had never had that conversation, questions still niggled at her and a doubting inner voice kept mumbling about 'protecting oneself'. She needed to prove that Sherlock was innocent of being an abuser and murderer, if only to herself. The question became- how did she go about doing so? She felt as if she could not just simply fill him in on everything Mary had revealed and ask him to explain. Mary's musings would surely not be well received and John might be forced to defend her to Sherlock. Molly could end up driving a wedge between the two best friends and losing Mary's friendship entirely.

"Yes, yes, yes, all well and good," her inner voice scolded her, "but what if he is a very bad man?"

Molly's hands started to quake. She didn't even want to consider that possibility. She made the decision right then that she would go to the prison and interview this mystery woman who claimed to have been deceived by her husband and ascertain for herself whether her story had any merit. Molly turned to leave the parlor but was stopped by the growl of her husband's voice.

"Where do you think you are going?"

Her shoulders tensed and she hesitantly turned to face him. He was still sprawled across his chair but with one eye open in a sleepy squint. The clothing he wore was overly long in the legs and arms - borrowed, she surmised. Molly found herself more than a little irate in that moment. What was a wife supposed to think about a husband who had been out all night and returned in someone else's attire? She lifted her chin.

"I hardly think I need to apprise you of my every activity. You certainly do not consider me in your comings and goings."

Both Sherlock's eyes snapped open but narrowed again as he sat up. He cricked his neck to the side, a muscle jerked in his jaw and he rose from his seat.

"You are mistaken if you believe that I will accept that," he said in a low voice.

Molly quivered in anger as he approached. "Accept what? My independence or my condemnation?"

"Either!" He bit out.

She backed away shaking her head. He followed, his legs pushed her skirts with each step until she bumped into the balustrade in the foyer. He boxed her between his arms as he supported himself on the railings at her back. He stared down at her with his nose slightly lifted and studied her through the barest of slits. Even so, his assessment of her face was incredibly intense. Her breaths reduced, becoming shorter and sharper under his scrutiny.

"You are looking at me differently," he mumbled, his chin dropped and his eyes caressed her face. "Have they succeeded then? Have I become suspect to my wife?"

Her tummy flip-flopped. "S-Suspect for what?"

He snorted then licked his tongue over his teeth.

"What indeed?"

They remained there in that near embrace for a spell. Sherlock's face relaxed and his eyes softened. He seemed to struggle internally. Molly felt her throat constrict. She just couldn't believe this man, as fathomless as his pupils seemed to be sometimes, was evil.

"Sherlock-"

A wrinkle appeared in his brow but disappeared almost as quickly. Something glazed over his eyes and he pushed away. He ran his hands through his hair and began undoing the buttons on his over-sized shirt. Her heart twisted in her chest. She hated this uncertainty, this unspoken distrust between them.

"I am in need of a shower, or at least, this is what I choose to discern from the distaste I read on your face," He started up the stairs, then stopped but didn't make eye contact. "Whatever you were planning to do today, consider it postponed. Oh, and I need you to pack an overnight bag."

Molly frowned up at him. "But-"

Sherlock sighed loudly and tapped his fingers on the railing. "This is not a request, Molly Holmes. I have need of a wife and it just so happens I actually have one. Please be ready to depart in an hour. We have a boat to catch."

* * *

Molly could not exactly explain why she did not just refuse Sherlock's directive, except that maybe she was afraid their relationship was deteriorating. Even though their marriage was unconventional, she still wanted to make it work. However, she wasn't sure Sherlock felt the same.

She closed her eyes briefly as she was gently buffeted by a cool breeze and sighed. The churning of the paddle wheel on the steamer Ramona taking them up the Fraser seemed to be the only sound in this wilderness. She opened her eyes again, it truly was wilderness! It hadn't taken very long to appreciate just how remote and isolated New Westminster was in the world. Civilization had disappeared only minutes after they rounded the river bend from the small city. Of course, there were several mills and other operations along the shore and boat traffic was steady but beyond the banks, trees rose high and thick, their leaves filling in for the summer. Snow-capped mountains peaked between gaps at almost incomprehensible distances. Molly had always imagined herself worldly having grown up in London, but this great expanse made her feel as if she had been living a small and sheltered life.

The shriek of a gull pierced the air above her and scattered her thoughts. She leaned out over the metal railing along the middle deck of the paddle wheeler and looked up to see a small, white seabird harassing a much larger dark-feathered bird with a yellow, hooked beak. The fearsome creature appeared to be carrying a freshly caught fish in its talons.

"That there is an eagle," she heard a voice claim to her left, "they used to be quite common but they've been over-hunted. You are fortunate to behold one."

Molly looked sideways to see a lanky young man in a dapper, cream-coloured suit. She smiled to herself. Funny that, no one in these parts wore such easily soiled fabrics and yet he felt the urge to educate her about the scarcity of eagles in Canada with an obviously American accent.

"Well, that's a shame," Molly replied, not wanting to make him feel awkward. "Why would anyone want to kill such an extraordinary animal?"

The young man removed his hat to reveal blonde hair which was not a surprise given the fairness of his mustache. He dipped his head. Light, smiling blue eyes regarded her with admiration.

"I do not know," he replied cheerfully, "except maybe that some people covet the exotic. Sa-ay, what is that delightful accent? English?"

Molly suppressed a laugh. Lord, he wasn't subtle.

"It is French, actually."

He tilted his head at her in confusion then grinned from ear to ear. "Why, you're pulling my leg!"

She pressed her lips together and looked past him along the deck. The sun was higher in the sky and the breeze warmer than it had been earlier. People were beginning to crowd the narrow walkway but she did not see Sherlock anywhere. He had disappeared to the lower deck to check on Redbeard and her new gelding named Toby. She was not sure when the diminutive mount had been purchased. Sherlock's grumbling's had been incomprehensible. Molly had instantly been enraptured by the little Welsh-Arabian cross, however, as he awaited his turn to be loaded on the steamer alongside Redbeard. He looked like a miniature version of her husband's mount at only thirteen hands high. As if the pair knew they were meant to be together, the steeds leaned against one another with Redbeard's head protectively hanging over the neck of his smaller counterpart. Molly had only gotten to pat Toby on the nose and whisper a few sweet nothings before they'd had to board the Ramona. She wished she was visiting him below deck with Sherlock, but her husband had insisted she remain where she was because she might ruin her clothing in the muck. Molly sighed. It seemed as if Sherlock wanted any excuse to separate himself from her.

"So, what brings you up the river today?" The young man chirped.

Molly lifted her shoulders and relayed their cover story. "Sightseeing. I am new to these parts, as you might have guessed."

"Ah, I thought so. Well, it's a beautiful country, isn't it, Miss-?"

She smiled tightly. "Erm, it is Mrs. Molly Holmes, actually."

His eyebrows drooped. He didn't hide his disappointment.

"Oh, well, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Holmes. My name is George Davidson. I am visiting a cousin in Port Hammond myself," he looked around, smiled again and then laughed nervously. "Is your husband not travelling with you? Are you on your own?"

A dark figure loomed behind Mr. Davidson suddenly. Molly looked up anxiously to see Sherlock's glower as he assessed the smaller man.

"She is not alone," came his glacial reply.

The young man jolted up from the railing and whirled towards Sherlock. His face blanched upon confronting Sherlock's menacing form with his broad, tall frame just barely fitting under the overhead awning. He was garbed in his usual black with his long coat nearly sweeping the deck. The wide brim of his hat cast shadows across his angular face. His pale eyes glittered with thinly veiled annoyance.

"Ah, h-hello!" Mr. Davidson stuttered. "I-ah- forgive me, sir, if I overstepped. I was just being friendly."

Sherlock's eyes constricted. "Yes, well, how about you go find a safer foothold elsewhere before you slip and find yourself treading water?"

Red-faced, the younger man dipped his head, slunk by Sherlock and fled around the front of the cabins. Molly looked up at her frowning husband. He opened his mouth to speak but she lifted a finger pointedly.

"No!" She said sharply and jabbed her finger at the air in front of him. "No more of this!"

"Of what?" He ground out.

Molly looked at him with brows bunched together and her nose wrinkled. "You have that sour look on your face as if I have misbehaved and am in want of a lecture. Well, I do not accept your contempt for several reasons. One, because I was not misbehaving and two, because if I want to misbehave, that is my prerogative."

Sherlock stepped closer, his head crooked to one side. His lips poked out just before he spoke.

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

Molly fully faced him with her hands on her hips. She glanced ruefully down at her posh, spruce blue riding habit and prissy, black leather boots. The feather on the ridiculously expensive hat Sherlock had bought her hung down and fluttered in the periphery of her vision. She breathed heavily through her nostrils a moment before raising her eyes again to his.

"I can do a great many things! I am not some feckless lady-wife too delicate to check on the welfare of her own mount. I do not give a damn about this frippery or whether I soak the hem of my skirts until it has wicked up three inches of horse piss."

Sherlock's lips parted in surprise. She continued unabated.

"That's right, I said 'damn' and 'piss'! I know plenty more colourful words, Mr. Holmes. Several of them have been on the tip of my tongue for the better part of the hour since you abandoned me up here."

A ripple of awareness travelled across his face and a light seemed to dawn in the depths of his eyes. Sherlock reached out and touched her abdomen. He blinked a few times.

"You are mad at me for leaving you alone?"

Molly's indignation faltered. Her face went very warm. She felt him push gently on her stomach and was forced to take a step back. She tried to slap his hand away but it was immoveable.

"What vexes you most? Being alone or having to endure my absence?" He asked in his deep timber.

She took another step back as he pushed her again. "You are insufferable!"

"That is not an answer," he murmured as he scrutinized her reaction, "did you . . . miss me?"

She swallowed. The soft, yet intense expression on his face was causing her insides to turn to jelly. She shook her head but he smiled. The spread of those decadent lips devastated her equilibrium.

"Has it just been during the previous hour or did you yearn for me last night as well?"

Molly had trouble keeping eye contact with him. He awaited her response like a kettle about to boil. His lips were open and feathered breaths between their curved perfection. Finally, as if coming to a silent understanding, he nodded and reached sideways. A dark void opened up next to them and Molly was tugged into what appeared to be a narrow storage room with cabinets lining either wall. Sherlock swung the door closed which plunged them into darkness. It took just a few seconds for her eyes to adjust but even so, she could see few details in the near blackness with only a sliver of light shining in from the door seams. The drone of the paddle wheel was more acute in this small space as if the ship walls acted as conduits for the noise. She could just make out the soft clap of something hitting the floor before she felt Sherlock's hands on her hat. He discarded it then cupped her face.

"Molly," his warm breaths pulsed against her face, "God, Molly, was I wrong to let you sleep last night? Would you have received me even after everything that happened?"

She tentatively laid her hands on his chest and stepped against him. "Of c-course, you are my husband."

"No," he rasped, "not because I am your husband, but because you would choose it."

"I-I don't understand. That is the only way I would have you."

Sherlock groaned then and pressed her against the cabinets with his massive frame. She could feel the vibration of the ship's propulsion through her back. His lips slid down her cheek, to the corner of her mouth then fumbled onto hers as if he was having trouble controlling himself. Molly clutched the lapels of his jacket beneath his great coat and responded to him as if she too were famished. Her senses felt heightened in the claustrophobic void. She was enraptured by the moist, supple slide of his lips across hers and then the wet, fleshy probe of his tongue into her mouth. Then, their tongues met and stroked against each other. The slickness of their contact reminded her of the way his manhood felt inside her when she was fully aroused. She moaned against his lips as her core tightened and infused with heat.

Sherlock's hands spanned her waist and curved over her bum. His lips left hers briefly as his fingers moved down to her skirts.

"Molly, I want to make my desertion up to you," he in a gruff tone. "Would you like to . . . misbehave?"

She licked her lips. "Um, in h-here?"

His lips caressed her neck. He tasted the flesh just beneath her ear before kissing and nibbling her earlobe.

"Yes," he breathed, warm air tickled her sensitive skin. "Otherwise it would not be misbehaving, would it?"

"Oh, Lord, you are a bad man," she whispered. "You are a very bad man."

He nodded as he kissed along her jaw. "I am beginning to believe you like that about me."

"Unh, huh, I do."

Warmth gathered between her thighs again. Her flesh was so sensitized, her undergarments abraded like burlap on her legs. Sherlock bunched her skirts and hiked them up around her waist. His hands found her bottom and cupped it through her drawers. Her whole body quivered as his lips captured hers again, his tongue invaded her mouth greedily and he thrust his hips against her torso. His excited member made itself known through their layers of clothing. Her hands crept up and dove into his hair as he wrestled with the ties holding her drawers in place.

"Blast these things," he muttered as he shrugged out of his jacket and it whooshed to the floor.

Sherlock's hands went to work again. With a satisfied grunt, he loosened her underwear and helped her step out of them. His fingers skimmed up her thighs.

"Relax your legs, my darling," he murmured.

Molly bit her lip and allowed him to delve his fingers into her cleft where he quickly found her most sensitive spot. A sharp pang of pleasure jolted her sex. She gripped his shoulders.

"Ah!" She cried as the sensation radiated inwards.

Sherlock chuckled against her mouth. "I apologize. A little too on point, perhaps?"

"Mm, no, it is g-good," she panted as he stroked over that avaricious apex, "oh, umm, so good."

She completely forgot about everything including where they were and that they could be discovered at any moment. She was thoroughly absorbed in the feel of his fingers as they became damp with her excitement and continued to sweetly assault her senses. She felt herself breaking, the ache became so unbearable she knew she was about to split apart, then he stopped.

"Aarg," she groaned, "nooo!"

"Molly," he grunted as he quickly unfastened his trousers and freed his erection, "that is mine and I will have it while I am inside of you."

The cabinets at her back creaked as Sherlock hoisted her up by her bottom and she felt the hard press of the wood into her back. Her skirts tangled around them. In one bold plunge, he drove himself so deep she thought he might impale himself into her womb. She clutched at his neck as he shifted the weight of her over his arms and pushed in even deeper, spreading her legs until they were on the verge of pain. The fill of him was so delicious, he stretched her so wholly, that she nearly had her release just thinking about his savage possession. Then he began to thrust, jolting her and the cabinets with each return, her feet jostling, until he pumped in and out of her like a piston on a steam locomotive.

"Mm, Sherlock . . ."

"Tell me what you need," he groaned.

He slowed punishingly, his shaft sliding in an infuriatingly slow glide. "What do you need, Molly?"

She gasped as he then thrust upwards hard. "Y-You, you, only you."

He exhaled and resumed his fervent pace. Molly felt her orgasm gather again like the damming of a stream and build until leaks sprang and she could no longer contain it. She dropped her forehead to Sherlock's shoulder, clenched one final time and let the damn burst as his engorged manhood pushed in with abandon. Her relief caused her whole core to spasm and ripples of it undulated throughout her body. Her legs twitched helplessly and she exhaled a shuddering breath through pursed lips.

"Christ, Molly, huh-"

Sherlock plummeted into her a final time and stiffened. Then, she felt his member strain and release inside her with a jerk. Sweat dripped from his brow to her collar and snaked between her breasts. Another, smaller contraction gripped him like an encore and he twitched within her inner walls. After a few moments, he let her down and handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. As she tended to herself, the sound of the paddle wheel changed and the whole ship shuddered around them.

"Seems we timed that just right, my misbehaving wife," Sherlock murmured. "I think we have arrived in Port Hammond."


	22. Chapter 22

"Are you enjoying your meal?"

Molly smiled at her husband. "I am."

She scooped another forkful of her dinner, a rich venison stew with root vegetables. She was absolutely enamored with the moment. She shared a corner table in the dining room of a quiet inn in Port Hammond with her ridiculously handsome husband. Her body still hummed from her encounter with him on the Ramona paddle wheeler. In fact, she flushed down to her toes every time she thought about the way he had claimed her against the cabinets.

Sherlock leaned forward. His pupils were so enlarged, his eyes were nearly black. A stray curl fell over his brow. He was devastating in the soft candlelight. Well-placed shadows emphasized his perfectly formed lips and prominent cheekbones. She watched a dimple dance in his cheek.

"You seem to be savoring every bite," he murmured, "which makes me regret my selection."

She wagged her fork at him. "Oh, umm, would you like a taste?"

He blinked lazily. "I think I might . . . later, that is. You see, I have been having trouble satisfying my appetite."

Molly grinned shyly. "One of us always seems to be hungry."

However, the perfectly naughty exchange was ruined when a voice pealed across the room.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

She could have screamed as they were interrupted. Her eyes flicked up from the fork and the mouthful of stew she was about to consume. She didn't recognize the man's sing-song voice, but did she recognize his face. She glanced quickly to Sherlock. A muscle flecked in his jaw as he set down his own fork. The playful, relaxed expression he had was gone.

"What an odd coincidence," Molly remarked softly.

"Coincidence?" He mumbled as his eyes narrowed, "I refuse to believe in such a happenstance phenomenon."

"Of course. Erm, that is the man who Mary visited at . . . ahem, Madam Adler's, is it not?" she whispered.

"The one and the same, Professor James Moriarty. He is teaching at the college in New Westminster but there is more to his story, I am certain. In fact, he had business with my brother the other night."

Before Molly could ask any additional questions, the professor approached their table. She hadn't thought much about the man the first time she had laid eyes on him because she had been distracted by Mary's involvement. He struck her then as quite attractive but in a disconcerting sort of way as if she gazed upon a serpent. There was a controlled fluidity to his movements that bespoke of a wiry strength beneath his meticulously tailored black suit. In addition, he had slashing black brows over intelligent brown eyes, but it was his smile that bespoke volumes about his character. It was too gleeful and yet, very cold as if he had practiced it a million times. She half-expected a forked tongue to dart out from between his lips.

"Mrs. Holmes, I presume?" He asked with a slight bow. "Delighted to finally have the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

Molly offered a stiff smile and nodded. "Good evening, sir."

"Professor Moriarty," Sherlock acknowledged with a dip of his head, his fingers tightening on the antler handle of his mug of ale.

He took a swig and inhaled deeply. Then, he set the mug back down.

"How astonishing it is run into you in Port Hammond of all places," Sherlock commented dryly.

The professor wagged his brows, grabbed a nearby chair and proceeded to scrape it across the floor towards their table. He smiled with obvious insincerity as he apologized in hushed tones to the other patrons of the inn enjoying their meals. Then, he flipped the chair around at their table and sat backwards on it.

"Ooh, that looks good," he snatched Molly's fork and scooped some of her stew into his mouth. "Mm, oh, lord, that is good."

He took another bite. Molly's mouth fell open.

"My word, you are unconscionably rude," she said in a flustered tone.

"Aw, so sorry, my dear. Though, I will tell you a secret," he chuckled and winked. "It is because I am a villain."

Before Professor Moriarty could take another bite, Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "If you touch my wife's food one more time, I will spike your hand to the table with that fork."

The professor sighed, opened his hand and let the utensil clatter to her plate. Sherlock's shoulders tensed and he pushed his chair back from the table as if ready to spring up at any second.

"Well, we cannot have that," the slightly slimmer man pouted.

A strained moment of silence ensued. Molly glanced anxiously between them. Sherlock finally relented and pushed the professor's hand away.

"What brings you this far up the river?" Sherlock asked between his teeth.

The professor's face hardened. He rolled his neck around.

"You, Mr. Holmes. You do."

Sherlock's brows drew together and his head tilted sideways. "Me?"

Molly was confused as well.

"Yes, you, silly," Moriarty huffed. "Now, I know. I know it's hard, nay impossible, for you to ignore such strange goings on but God, can you not just give it a rest? Why must you dig? You are going to upset all my plans."

"Your plans?" Sherlock hissed.

Molly quickly wiped her mouth with her serviette. It was her husband who reminded her of snake ready to strike then. He was correct in that there was more to this so-called professor. The man was attempting to bait him, but why? Moriarty's shoulders heaved, then he started chuckling but his laughter evaporated shortly thereafter as if it were a drop of water in a very hot pan.

"Plans, Mr. Holmes, plans," his eyes flicked Molly's way and glinted roguishly, "not all of us can afford to let spontaneity rule our hearts. Though, I can understand the temptation."

She found herself flushing in spite of herself. He was not so dissimilar to her husband with the intensity of his gaze. In fact, she felt guilt flood through her tummy at the insolent manner in which he appraised her as it was not entirely repugnant. Lord, what was wrong with her? When she looked at her husband, there was as dark a glower as she had ever seen on his face. She swallowed as a scorching heat burned up her neck and across her face. Sherlock turned his glare to the professor.

"Elaborate, Professor, or remove yourself from my sight."

Moriarty rolled his eyes around as if he were a doll with moveable glass orbs.

"Elaborate, he demands! Elaborate! Mm, sorry, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I can only offer you a warning," he tapped his fingers on the top of his chair as if he had too much pent up energy. "You punch way above your weight in this fight and there is no comeback, you understand? You have already lost."

"Professor-"

The man shook his head so fiercely, his cheeks jiggled. His mouth went slack a moment and then he slammed his hand on the table. Almost every piece of cutlery and table ware jumped on its surface. The other patrons looked up from their dinners.

"You have already lost," his voice was a harsh whisper, his eyes round and wild. "Mr. Holmes, you are too late to this. It is a runaway train. You cannot stop it but you can . . . you can avoid it. You and your missus can avoid a world of pain if you just . . . eat your meals, have your stay at your cozy little hideaway here and then tootle back to New Westminster on the lovely Ramona tomorrow."

Sherlock lurched forward and grabbed the professor by the lapels of his blazer. The table rattled making Molly jump. She worried her lip as she regarded the fearsome look on her husband's face.

His eyes flashed. "Are you threatening my wife and I?"

"Nah," Moriarty didn't blink as he emphatically enunciated each word, "nah. I do not threaten. I am a messenger, Mr. Holmes, a deliverer . . . a damned facilitator. Go home. Just . . . go home. This is my advice to you."

Molly's heart felt as it were a clock wound too tight as it beat a triple count for each second that passed. She was afraid Sherlock was going to throttle the professor within an inch of his life until he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. His eyelid flickered. Then, his fingers, which were white from gripping Professor Moriarty's blazer so tightly, loosened. With a smirk, the professor slunk back. Sherlock gathered himself and his expression shuttered.

"No doubt you know of my chosen profession," he said in a flat tone, "so you know your advice runs contrary to my nature. I am a hound on a scent and you cannot dissuade me now that I have detected the malodorous whiff of treachery. So keep your council and instead, let me issue my own warning. Whatever game you play, whatever offenses you seek to foist upon the world, I will stop you."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty hung his head and shook it, his voice was a hollow lilt, "stop me? Even if you could, that would be unwise. Unwise, indeed."

* * *

Molly clasped her hands together on her lap as Sherlock paced in front of their room's small, cast iron stove. Pine logs burned bright and hot behind the slotted door. Their accomodations were surprisingly toasty as a result. However, it was her husband who burned with a white-hot rage. After Professor Moriarty had left them to finish their dinner in the inn's dining room, Sherlock hadn't eaten another bite. He had just glowered, his brow heavy in thought, as he waited for her to finish with her lukewarm stew. She had left most of it uneaten as her appetite had never recovered from their encounter with the professor.

She sighed and took in the simple yet charming décor of their room. Green and white tartan wallpaper adorned the walls. The writing desk, side table and bed frame were all made from knotty pine with the pillars on the bed frame crafted especially with pine trunks rife with burls. They seemed to like their wood in Canada, but then, there was plenty of it. Her eyes flitted to her husband again. She wanted to soothe his seething temper, but given his foul mood, knew he would be less than receptive.

He held up a hand. "Stop it . . . I cannot think."

Molly sniffed. "I-I didn't say anything."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye as he plodded by again.

"No, but your pity bears down on me," he yanked at his cravat, "it is suffocating."

She frowned. "You are delusional, sir. What reason have I to pity you?"

His face was contorted with a sneer as he turned towards her at last. "Please! How this must disappoint you, the great Sherlock Holmes stymied by a teacher."

She snorted.

He stalked towards her where she sat perched on the edge of the bed. "What?!"

Molly poked her lips to one side and blinked deliberately. "Oh, good lord, that face! You act as if it would make a difference of what I think. I mean, you hardly need my reassurance when you already think so highly of yourself. The great Sherlock Holmes. Pfft, I never knew you as anything so asinine."

He leaned forward until their noses nearly touched. His gaze was as black as a storm on a new moon night. She steadied herself on the bed.

"Really?" He bit out, his hot breaths puffing against her face. "Then what do you know me as, if not great?"

She tilted her head back and raised her chin in the process. "As my husband, which has always been sufficient for me."

His eyelids fluttered as the hard lines of his fury disappeared. He seemed genuinely surprised and confused for a moment. Then, he fell forward and his lips were on hers. His kiss caught her off guard and she had to grasp his sides to stop from flopping backwards. He shook, his whole body vibrated beneath her fingers. Molly was stunned. Her husband was . . . afraid.

She wrapped her arms around him and stroked his back. With a sigh, his trembling subsided and she coaxed his fervent kiss to a calmer repast. He groaned as she stroked her tongue languidly across the seam of his lips.

"Molly-"

She stifled him with another kiss. Words would not soothe his torment, she knew. All she could do was calm the beast trapped by his own spectres. When he lifted his head for air again, she scooted back on the bed and held her arms out to him.

"Let me help you put this all out of your mind," she whispered.

He stared at her a moment, then some internal musing caused him to flinch. He recoiled.

"No," he breathed. "Christ! This is the problem."

She curled her fingers back and retracted her arms haltingly. A cold flush cooled the spike in her temperature.

"Wh-What?" She asked.

His lips turned down. He massaged his forehead and then wiped a hand over his face.

"This is the problem!" He retorted. "I-I am not this person. I cannot be this person."

"This? This?" Molly repeated. "This is the problem? What do you mean? Our marriage?"

He stepped back. "It is a distraction. This study in emotion has made my mind soft. The ground is shifting beneath my feet like the opening of a fault line and all I can think about is losing myself in your embrace. It is madness!"

She was winded by his declarations. Did he really resent her so? Her heart felt as if it were going to collapse in on itself.

"What are you saying?"

He raked his fingers through his hair. "This emotion. Your emotions. I do not want them. They have corrupted my judgement. I have abandoned the tenet of holding true, cold reason above all else. I have become what I have always viewed with contempt, an irrational, fearful . . . average dullard. You are right in that I am no longer great. I am not Sherlock Holmes. I am Mr. Molly."

Molly was speechless. She could feel sobs rising in her throat like a backed up sink. She covered her mouth. Sherlock grabbed his coat from where he had slung it over the chair near the writing desk. His eyes furtively glanced up at her but quickly darted away. His face had drained of colour.

"I . . . I must get some air," he muttered. "D-Do not wait up."


	23. Chapter 23

_Author here, I ask for a few more comments if you all are digging this! :) I am wondering if anyone likes this enough to bother over here on FF. Thanks!_

* * *

 _"This emotion. Your emotions. I do not want them. They have corrupted my judgement. I have abandoned the tenet of holding true, cold reason above all else. I have become what I have always viewed with contempt, an irrational, fearful . . . average dullard . . ."_

Molly sat on the edge of the inn's small double bed in Port Hammond feeling numb and stared at the opposite wall. Her husband's words echoed through her mind again. The dry air in the room seemed to blister her corneas, her eyes felt as if they had been open too long. Then, a sharp stinging like nothing she'd ever felt preceded an eruption of tears. She was overcome. Her whole body shuddered with sobs. They were so consuming she couldn't hold herself up anymore. In her grief, she slid gracelessly off the bed and became a puddle of misery upon the indifferent wooden floors.

She had not cried so bitterly since her father passed. Even then, she could not equate the pain of his demise to what she was feeling in that moment. Her father had suffered a long and lingering malady and his death had been a slow, withering of his once vital form. Bearing witness to his drawn-out suffering had given her time to harden herself to the cold reality of being left alone. This abandonment by Sherlock was different, however. He had softened her heart like gelatin in water only to leave her defenseless.

Yet, as much as she resented him in that moment, she felt as if she had no one to blame but herself for falling in love with him. Every time she'd had the opportunity to step back from her husband and reject his begrudging emotions, she'd instead stepped forward and demanded more. Perhaps she had finally found the limits of what he had to offer. She hiccupped another sob. That was exactly why it hurt so much, she realized. She had run out of track.

"Knock, knock!"

Molly's head shot up. She furiously wiped away tears and sniffled. Had Sherlock returned? Her heart renewed its fervent beat and hope sprang in her chest. She scuttled up off the floor and hurried to answer the summons. However, when she threw open the door, her stomach plummeted like a stone. It was not her husband. Instead, she encountered a cold, practiced leer full of intent.

"Hu-llo, Mrs. Holmes," the smile spread. "Left alone again, hmm?"

* * *

The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stood up as a chilly breeze fanned his skin. He flipped up his collar and shook out his shoulders. The spectre of Molly's pale face with her eyes filled with stark betrayal refused to wane in his mind like the flickering of a stubborn candle. It took everything he had in him not to turn around, ride back to the inn and throw himself at her feet. He tried to tamp down the panic threatening to overwhelm his senses but his anxiety hissed from cracks in his armor like steam from a kettle. His hand hovered over the door knob in front of him. His fingers shook.

"Focus!" He spit out.

Molly had become a distraction and he had yet to figure out a way to be both her husband and a detective. He was desperately greedy. He wanted his wife - he wanted her body, her love, and her soul. He wanted everything she had to offer but that urge to glut on all things Molly left little room for rational thought. So, his remedy was a calculated flight and temporary return to form.

That was why, at long last, he visited the residence of Claude Ravache. He had a job to do and he had to find a way to do it. Rumor around Port Hammond was that the barrister had gone off to visit a relative south of the border. Sherlock suspected that he had probably never left.

" _Much better, Sherlock,"_ his brother's bland intonation rumbled internally, _"your thoughts have already begun to clear. Now, we have a job to do-"_

" _What? Is this really more important to do right now than protect your wife?"_ His housemate's incredulous voice echoed between his ears."Unbelievable!"

 _"Whoop! Ha, ha, ha, ooh, you're testy. This is hard on you, isn't it, Mr. Holmes?"_ A menacing sing-song tone added to the fray.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He muttered. "All of you, just . . . shut up!"

His internal dialogue was a schizophrenic mess. He could still see his wife in his mind's eye but she remained a silent, wounded vision. Her anguish gutted him, hollowed him out like a mammoth river sturgeon at market. He gritted his teeth and sniffed a bracing breath of the cool night air. Even as his guts quivered, he became more resolute. Guilt would have to wait.

Finally, he gripped the knob and turned it on its shaft. He could not decide if he was surprised or not that it was unlocked. He swung the heavy fir door open in front of him. Its hinges groaned as if they had grown comfortable in their dormant state. He stepped over the threshold into the foyer, stilled his breaths and stood there a moment listening to the yawning silence. His nose wrinkled. The home smelled dank like mildew. It was apparent that no fires had been lit in the residence in some time. He closed the door and padded lightly through the house. For every step he advanced over the hand-hewn floors, a creak arose from between the boards. Despite the recent neglect, the interior was otherwise neatly maintained. The home appeared undisturbed.

Before he had met Molly, Sherlock was the last person to put any stock in feelings, but apprehension swirled in his blood like a menacing cloud of ink. It was the dearth of life and liveliness in the home that especially disquieted his thoughts. He could not deduce why this might be except for an overwhelming feeling that something was wrong. Danger felt close at hand.

A swift tour upstairs and back down again revealed little that was noteworthy. It was only when he found himself at the back door did he finally observe a few faint scratches on the floor that could be recent. He crouched down and ran his fingers over the grooves. Something . . . someone had been dragged from the kitchen? He followed the lines outside to the back porch. Beyond the porch, the backyard was shrouded in darkness. He cursed. He should have come during the day.

Then a light from nearby shone towards him through the trees. He squinted as he assessed its source. A tugboat with its lantern fixed towards the banks cruised up the river. The men on the vessel used the powerful beam to illuminate any hazards they might encounter along the shores. He listened to the chug of the boat's engines and watched as the lights briefly backlit the trees. He shook his head. As the strobe flashed through the trees directly in front of him, he discerned one tree that was more skeletal than the others as if it had been stripped of its foliage.

He quickly retrieved and lit a lamp from the house, then set off through the darkness towards the anomalous tree. Why it stood out to him, he did not entirely know. It just seemed significant. An overgrown path led him down towards the water until he stood just under where he thought he had seen the naked conifer. He held up the lamp but its light was too weak in its reach to uncover much. He took a few more steps. Oddly, the ground beneath his feet crunched. He kneeled down. In the soft glow from his lamp, he saw black coals. He swung his lantern in an arc and found that he stood in the remains of a small structure burnt to the ground by fire. For several minutes, Sherlock explored its rectangular footprint until he kicked into a pile. He crouched down once more and brushed at a heap of charcoal and ash. Then, the bright white bones of a rib cage and spine emerged from the soot. He staggered to his feet and stumbled backwards.

"Christ," he muttered.

He covered the lower half of his face a moment with his free hand. He glanced down toward the Fraser River. Moonlight glinted off its murky surface. He had no doubt that the bones belonged to Mr. Ravache. The pieces of the mystery of Gertie Friesen's death began to fall into place. He was almost certain that she and Mr. Ravache had been forced into this small shed on the edge of the property near the river and subsequently, the building had been lit on fire. Gertie had escaped at some point, but only after her clothing and most of her skin had been burnt away. She had sought relief in the river but that had proved as deadly as the fire.

His mind reeled with the strength of his deductive vision. Tentatively, he returned to the pile of ash and poked at it with a stick. Beneath a charred hipbone, he discovered a tightly packed stack of partially burnt papers. When he spread them with the stick he nearly fell back on his arse. The papers were in fact, copies of a portrait of himself he knew very well. In fact, they were of _the portrait_.

Sherlock grabbed one and shook the ash from it even as his hand vibrated with rage. He remembered sitting for the picture. It had been not too long after he had arrived in Canada about eight years previous when he had been employed as an agent of the British crown. They had wanted a portrait of him for their files. Its replication and distribution meant someone he had once trusted had betrayed him.

Suddenly, the immediate area did not seem so dark. He frowned as his shadow cast in front of him. He turned his head back towards the house to see fire licking from the windows. Then, he heard the shrill whinny of a horse and shouts of several different voices. He quickly snapped the valve shut on his borrowed oil lantern and extinguished the light as hooves beat a drum in his direction. When he glanced up again, the unmistakable outline of his mount Redbeard flew towards him. On the back porch of the house, several figures appeared and he heard the pop of gunfire. Something whistled past him and cracked into a nearby tree.

"Whoa!" He hissed and grabbed Redbeard's reins from where he still crouched.

"Steady, boy," Sherlock wrestled the petrified animal to a stop.

Then he jumped up, swung himself onto the saddle and kicked his heels. Redbeard jolted beneath him and set off. Sherlock's heart thundered in his ears, drowning out the pounding of his steed's hooves against the earth. He heard several more shots in the dark. He looked left and right. The forest around them was too dense. There was nowhere else to go. He leaned forward over Redbeard's neck and braced himself for the inevitable. They were headed straight for the Fraser.

Redbeard crashed into the water, then slammed to a stop. Sherlock tried to hold on but pitched forward over his head and into the water. The shock of it expunged all air from his chest as if he'd been slapped by a massive, icy hand. He floundered for a second as his clothing became leaden with water. He experienced a moment of panic as he was almost impossibly weighed down by the sodden mass. Cold spread over his flesh like a blast of freezing wind. Then, one by one he planted his feet in the mud and struggled to stand. Fortunately, because of how wide the Fraser River was in this section of the valley, it was very slow moving. Unfortunately, thick silt tended to collect at the shores. He could feel his feet sink into the clay-like river bottom.

Redbeard whinnied and thrashed about as he fought against the suck of the mud. Sherlock divested himself of his drenched coat and hat and lurched towards his mount. The heavy silt pulled at his boots but he managed to grab Redbeard's reins. The terrified horse snorted and almost jerked them away again before Sherlock managed to gain his attention. He slid a hand down the beast's wet shoulder.

"Ssh, boy," his teeth chattered, "I know y-you are frightened but if we are to esc-c-cape, I need my c-calm lad."

Behind them, gruff, male voices barked back and forth. Redbeard tensed. Sherlock looked back and saw flames leaping high into the air above the trees. The reflection of their yellow fingers danced across the water's surface as he searched up and down the banks of the river. All he could see illuminated by the moon and firelight was marsh-like growth. He knew the men on the land had the advantage of speed over them. There would be no way for Redbeard to move quickly enough along the swampy tidal deposits to escape their pursuers. Their only option was to swim out into the river and allow the faster waters to carry them downstream.

The irony of his situation was not lost on Sherlock. He was acutely sympathetic for Gertie Friesen as he urged Redbeard farther into the river. He could vividly imagine her then, in excruciating pain and facing the terrible choice between fleeing a sadistic killer and succumbing to the deathly embrace of the frigid waters. Clutched in her hand had probably been the ring and his picture found in her stomach. What had been going through her mind in those final moments? He swallowed a lump in his throat as he envisioned her thinking of the man in her portrait and despairing for a love she was denied. He could almost see her fumbling to fold the picture with severely burnt fingers, perhaps with the mad logic that she would make him a part of her by ingesting his photo. Had the ring been a broken promise as well? The hopelessness she must have experienced paralleled his own. He felt stomach-churning guilt for unwittingly contributing to her death.

"There he is!" Someone cried.

The waters rose up to meet Sherlock's chest as he slogged forward. They had reached the shore.

Sherlock dove. He heard the rip of bullets explode from the shore. The waters were so cold, they almost burned his flesh as it washed over his head. Redbeard plowed deep beside him into the river. Sherlock threw an arm over his back and kicked alongside his mount. Bullets slammed into the waters near them. Sherlock closed his eyes, steeled himself against the cold and waited for his flesh to be pierced by lead. However, Redbeard forged forwards into the swift waters and soon they were moving quite quickly away from where the bullets impacted the river's surface.

Sherlock clung to Redbeard but the river's chill sunk deep to his bones and his joints began to stiffen. With his remaining strength, he loosened the saddle off his horse and allowed it to slide into the depths. Then, he slung over Redbeard's back and wrapped his arms around his neck.

"G-G-Good j-job, m-my friend. G-Good, lad. Take us back to t-town," he sputtered, a singular thought gripped him, "hurry now, take us back t-to Molly and Toby."

With a huff, Redbeard flattened his ears, stretched his neck and renewed his surge. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and fought to remain conscious.

"Molly," he murmured, "forgive me, my darling, . . . forgive me."


	24. Chapter 24

_An hour before Sherlock's unfortunate swim . . ._

Molly was rendered speechless upon seeing Mr. Davidson, the young man from the ferry, darkening her door. However, she knew by the look on his face his mind was filled with devious intentions. The first words from his lips confirmed her suspicions. His smile dropped from his face.

"Be bloody quiet or your husband dies!" He spat.

However, Molly did not heed his command. She knew all too well the folly of remaining quiet when confronted by a dangerous man. Back in London, women disappeared all the time without anyone having heard a peep from them. She tried to slam the door shut but Mr. Davidson stuck his foot forward to prevent it from closing. She screamed in frustration and threw a nearby lamp at him. It crashed into the half-closed door and to the floor. When he smashed the wooden partition open again, she leaped into action. She caused as much further commotion as she could by over-turning a chair and flopping over a dresser. Every person in the inn seemed to rouse after that racket. Their shouts echoed down the corridors and Molly began to feel as if she might yet escape whatever vile fate Mr. Davidson plotted. However, the other guests were unable to come to her aid in time. Mr. Davidson forced his way into her room, grabbed her, then dragged her down the hall and out a side door where she was shoved into an awaiting carriage.

Yet, she fought on with a strength she did not know her small frame possessed even as their conveyance began to move. She continued to scream and managed to kick a window out of the door of the carriage. She also elbowed the second man waiting within the cabin before the pair of them wrestled her to the floor. It wasn't until a knee held her down and she struggled to breathe that she quieted somewhat. She was barely able to draw a few rasping breaths. She thought she might faint from lack of air but eventually, the weight lessened.

"Christ! What a hellcat!" A voice she had never heard before cursed. "I thought you said she was a lady. She doesn't fight like a lady."

"Let me up!" Molly cried. "Let me up, you bastards!"

Her demands fell on deaf ears and then they made it impossible for her to protest her treatment. They tied, gagged and deposited her against the window where she could only stare impotently out into the night scape as they moved farther and farther away from the lights of Port Hammond, her husband and her best chance of rescue.

* * *

An hour later, Molly was awakened by the sound of gunshots. She jolted in her seat and gazed around wildly. She blinked a few times to clear her head. How she had fallen asleep, she was not entirely certain, but she mercifully discovered she was alone in the carriage. Yellow light flared, flashed, and danced into the cabin through the glass she had cracked earlier. She wriggled over to the broken window and peered out to see what looked like a house in the woods fully engulfed in flames about a hundred yards away.

She watched, horrified a moment as the flames licked into the black sky. Stars twinkled between each flickering spire like cinders crackling up into the abyss. Then she heard a whinny and the pounding of hooves. An unmistakeably large steed tore around the building and out of sight. She instantly recognized the unique gait of Redbeard. More shots followed. Her heart beat like the pulsation of a steam piston in her chest. Sherlock! She whimpered against the foul tasting gag in her mouth and yanked at her binds. He was out there somewhere. She needed to get to him.

"Molly?"

She tore her eyes from the inferno to see John Watson climbing into the carriage. Hot tears of relief spilled down her cheeks and she dragged in a deep breath through her nostrils.

"Oh, dear lord, Molly!" His eyes were large with alarm.

He scooted forwards and pulled at the ties at her ankles. Then he set about removing the rope that bound her wrists together and finally tugged the cloth that had rendered her mute. When she was free of her restraints, she fell into his arms sobbing. John hugged her tightly.

"I am so sorry, Molly," he whispered. "I was too late to the inn but we managed to track you here."

"W-We?" She hiccupped.

His hand stroked the back of her head. "Yes, Chief Constable Lestrade and I have come."

Molly pulled her head back to look at him, more than a little confused. "B-But why?"

John's eyes skittered sideways. "Um . . . that's not important right now. Where is Sherlock?"

"I-I do not know."

More shots fired in the distance. Both their heads swivelled towards the sound and back in the direction of the house.

"Come, let us depart before they return. Never fear, we will find him."

Molly glanced imploringly at the raging fire. The roof was beginning to collapse in on itself. Suddenly, a woman's figure silhouetted between them and the house. She faced away wearing a hood but there was something familiar about the way she carried herself. Then, she turned slightly and Molly caught the glint of her red skirts. Only one woman in her recent acquaintance wore such a gown. She gasped.

"What is it?" John asked.

"The Madam! Madam Adler!" She cried.

John looked out of the carriage. His eyes were round with shock. He shook his head then clutched her hand and pulled her towards the door.

"We must go, Molly. Oh, Christ! We have all of us been deceived."

* * *

It was a blast of hot breath and then the nudge of whiskers that stirred Sherlock. He groaned and attempted to move his limbs but they did not respond. His flesh tingled as if he had pinched off the nerves to each appendage. Then, stinging pain shot from his fingers and toes towards the center of his being followed by a soaking cold. He forced open his heavy lids. At first, he was blinded by daylight but then he saw the snout of Redbeard inches from his face. Beyond that, a muddy expanse littered with driftwood rose towards a grassy bank.

He twitched the lifeless, wooden digits on each of his hands. They felt as if they were encapsulated by rubber. Slowly, his body registered the sensation of being chest down in cold, slick mud. He lifted his cheek from the mire to be nudged in the back of the head by Redbeard again. Unfortunately, the poor fellow seemed unaware that he forced his master's face back down into the sopping silt.

"Yes, yes, I am alive, my friend, though barely," he sputtered into the muck.

Then he remembered how he must have come to be in this place. Fear spiked his heart rate. The shots! The flames! The breath-stealing plunge! All of it roared back to the forefront of his mind.

"Molly!" He cried.

He pushed himself upwards but every joint in his body stiffened and then froze.

"Hu-uh, u-uh!" He sobbed.

Redbeard snorted and bopped him again more forcefully. Sherlock lifted his impossibly heavy arm and waved it around until Redbeard's reins tangled between his fingers. With as much forte as he could muster, he gripped the leather straps and clicked his tongue.

"You must help me, Redbeard, my boy," he whispered. "I need your strength."

Sherlock listened to the slop of Redbeard's hooves as he dug into the mud and then felt the jerk of the reins as the horse backed away. At the same time, the determined beast lifted his head and began to tug his master with him. The wet reins slipped in Sherlock's grasp but he redoubled his grip again.

"Aarg!" He moaned as he was hauled to his feet. "Unh!"

He stood there a moment panting from the effort. His head and vision swam. Then, slowly, as if coming to life, his muscles shored themselves and standing became less of an effort. All the same, Redbeard moved closer to allow Sherlock to lean on him.

"Thank-you, my good boy," he murmured as he patted his shoulder. "I will fill your whole stall with dried beets upon our return. This I swear."

The sun on his back felt like heaven as he steadied his breaths. However, his heart rate kept quickening and deafening him with the sound of blood in his ears. Tears squeezed from his eyes. He was supposed to have been there to protect Molly. He was her last line of defense and he had failed her by being ambushed. He threw back his head and let out a bellow of frustration and heartache. How many hours had it been? The sun had not risen very high in the east, he guessed it was no later than seven in the morning, but that was time enough for all manner of things to have happened to her.

Redbeard wagged his head and pawed the mud, then he shifted his back legs and bumped Sherlock once more. Sherlock took several breaths to quell the anxiety wanting to percolate beneath his flesh. He felt it bubble and acid scalded his throat, before he finally swallowed back the boiling wretchedness. He had to narrow his focus and concentrate on what he could do in that moment or he truly would be lost.

It began with the quick rinse of mud from his body. Then, he managed to climb onto Redbeard's back and orientate himself to his position on the river. He closed his eyes and listened to the world around him. He heard the faint whirr and grind of what sounded like wood being run through a saw and realized that he wasn't too far from a mill on the west side of Hammond. In fact, if he was correct in the deduction of his location, he was a mere half-mile's ride from the inn where he had left Molly.

He urged Redbeard up onto the bank and shuddered. He had been too cold for too long and the rays of the sun on his back amplified the acute feeling of chill in his limbs. Still, the gentle heat warmed his blood and gave him hope. The world still held pleasantries. He had to believe Molly was alright.


	25. Chapter 25

Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his folded hands together under his nose as another scream pierced the air. He had resolved not to interfere but the anguish in each cry lanced his soul. Finally, even as the distress reached a crescendo, he almost thought he would be able to withstand it. However, the tremulous whimper that followed shattered his composure. With a growl, he shoved the doors to his bedroom open with both hands. They slammed loudly against the walls. Daylight cast his shadow into the space. The stout doctor tending to his wife and his assistant nurse squinted at his intrusion from either side Anthea who reclined on their bed.

"Mr. Holmes!" Dr. Lecroix exclaimed. "Your wife has not given birth yet. She is still very much in the throes of labor!"

Mycroft glowered at the stocky, grey-haired man wiping what appeared to be crimson fluid off his hands just below where he had rolled up his sleeves. Mycroft felt blood drain from his own face before his eyes shot to Anthea. Even with her dark brown hair tussled and her brow damp with sweat, she was heartbreakingly beautiful. However, she looked in absolute agony with her eyes squeezed shut and fistfuls of their bedding in her grasp. Her gentle smirk was nowhere to be found. Guilt stole his breath. He never should have left her side. The doctor rushed forward upon seeing the look of intent on his face.

A hand halted his advance. "You cannot be in here. It is not proper, sir!"

Mycroft looked down at the flustered doctor and the equally perturbed elderly nurse at his elbow. Both of them had lips jutted out in disapproval. The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose while shaking his head. Mycroft shrugged him off.

"Remove your hand, Doctor, lest you find yourself needing a physician. This is my home and that is my wife. Hang propriety!"

Dr. Lecroix huffed and dropped his hand but stepped closer all the same. He adjusted his silver waistcoat over his rotund belly.

"Mr. Holmes, I must caution you," his chin wagged emphatically as he spoke. "You have never seen anything like this. It is not for the faint of heart-"

Mycroft snorted. "Are you serious? This is something women have been bore witness to for centuries! I think I can handle it."

The doctor's brows raised. "Fine, Mr. Holmes, fine. Have it your way but mark my words, you cannot un-see what you are about to see. Now, close those doors! I am trying to keep a calm atmosphere."

At that moment, Anthea opened her eyes and raised her hand shakily towards Mycroft. He hastily closed the doors, rushed to her side and pulled a chair up next to their bed with its ornately carved headboard. His wife attempted to sit up but her arms shook with the effort. He urged her to lie back down.

"I am so sorry, my darling," he kissed the top of her head. "I should never have let them keep me from you."

Tears streamed down her face. "No, my love, do not fret. I am fine . . . aaaarg!"

She cried out again and her body heaved forward. Somehow, his hand ended up in hers in a death grip and she cried out again. Her tone was different this time. She sounded as if her entire being was being wrenched apart.

"Oh, I know this cry very well!" Dr. Lecroix exclaimed. "The baby is coming."

For the first time in his life, Mycroft felt completely superfluous. He did his best to withstand her painful grip and whisper words of encouragement. However, he was terrified, as much for her health as at his own helplessness. If the fates deemed fit to take Anthea from him, there was nothing in his arsenal that would assist him. He could not bargain with, outwit or manipulate anyone to ease her burden. He simply had to rely on her strength to carry her through. He inhaled a shuddering breath. That thought fortified him in that moment. His wife was as resilient a woman as he had ever met. If she could not come through this, he could not imagine any woman surviving such an ordeal.

"Uuuuunh!" She grunted.

"Mrs. Holmes, the head is right here," Dr. Lecroix advised. "One more push ought to do it . . ."

Then, everything seemed to happen at an accelerated pace. Anthea bore down a final time, a head with a thick matt of hair appeared and then a full formed human emerged. The doctor turned the child upside down, gave it a couple good thwacks on the back and its cries filled the room.

"Well done, Mrs. Holmes!" The doctor beamed. "You have produced a strapping son for your husband!"

It barely registered to Mycroft that the baby was a boy. In fact, the information was neither here nor there in terms of importance. Relief flooded through him for Anthea's sake. While he had never known her to be overly observant, he had heard her pray many a nights for the safe delivery of their child, whatever it may be. Her fervent wish had been that the child be healthy and if his lusty little cries were any indication, he was a very healthy little boy indeed. If there was one thing Mycroft feared more than Anthea's death, though, it was having her lose something so precious to them both.

The nurse wiped the baby boy down and then placed him high up an Anthea's chest against her skin. "Best way to calm the lad is to warm him on your skin, Madam."

Anthea looked stunned as the baby's cries quieted. She cradled his tiny head with a shaking hand. Her eyes were large as she gazed down at his scrunched face and head which was shaped like a cone.

"I-Is this normal?" She whispered. "His head . . . is it supposed to be pointed?"

Dr. Lecroix laughed. "The baby's head is soft. It deformed to navigate its way into the world, Mrs. Holmes. Do not fret, in a few minutes, it will be round once more. Now, we are not quite done. You need to push out the after birth. Mr. Holmes, this might be a good time to look away."

He sniffed. "After witnessing that? Seriously, doctor, what could be worse . . ."

Mycroft's words died on his lips. The emergence of his son had been an awe-inspiring thing of beauty. What followed was indescribable horror of which he would never recover.

"Dear lord!" He gasped, his chair rattled beneath him.

He nearly fainted as the placenta was expelled. He had seen things on the battlefield less disturbing.

The doctor harrumphed. "I told you, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft glanced back to Anthea. His revulsion for the fleshy sack was forgotten as he appraised her waxen features.

"My dear, are you alright?"

"I am fine, husband," she whispered, she could not take her eyes off her son, "just tired, I think."

"Mr. Holmes," the doctor interjected. "She is hemorrhaging. She has torn. I need to start stitching her now."

Mycroft's heart sped up as his anxiety renewed. Anthea grew paler with every passing second.

"W-Would you hold him a moment?" She asked in a ragged tone.

"O-Of course."

The nurse swaddled their son and placed him in Mycroft's arms. He blinked down at his tiny son with his plump lips and button nose and reality hit him like a speeding locomotive. The moment could have been ripped from the pages of his internal diary. He had held his baby brother like this, almost exactly like this so many years ago, and Sherlock had looked just the same. His eyes darted from his boy to his fading wife. He swallowed as his chest began to ache. Dr. Lecroix had set about stitching his wife but her head lolled back against the pillow. Dark smudges appeared under her eyes. He had never seen her look so drawn.

"Doctor?" He asked anxiously.

The doctor ignored him and muttered under his breath as he worked.

"Doctor?!"

"A moment, Mr. Holmes!" His voice was harried. "I am attempting to save your wife's life."

Mycroft leaned forward towards Anthea. The air in his lungs burned.

"My darling, please, stay with me."

Her eyes rolled back in her head and she closed them. Her breathing seemed very shallow.

"How . . . is . . . he? How is my baby?" She mumbled.

"He is excellent, my love, but he needs a name. What did you want to call him? I-I cannot recall our conversations about it-"

He thought she went unconscious then but her lips moved.

"Do not lie to me. You . . . you remember . . . everything . . ."

He scooted his chair forward and freed one hand to stroke her face. She felt cold.

"Anthea? Anthea?" He pleaded. "I do not remember. Please, I need your help."

Mycroft's eyes prickled. His fingers trembled as he brushed the hair from her face. His breaths howled like a sandstorm in his ears. He looked down at the snoozing newborn cradled in his left arm. Again he was struck by how much the boy reminded him of his younger brother. Sherlock's fate was indeterminate at that time. A telegram that had arrived early that morning from John Watson in Port Hammond informing him that Sherlock was missing but then Anthea had gone into labor. He'd had to choose between his brother and his wife, a contest she won hands down. Yet, now she was slipping away and Mycroft's whole world crumbled around him. He hardly knew how to breathe as it seemed he was about to lose everything.

"A-Anthea?"

Her lips moved again but she didn't speak.

"My darling . . . my love, you cannot leave me alone like this," his voice broke. "I-I w-w-will not survive it. Please, please, you must try. I cannot . . . I . . . this will break me."

Anthea did not respond but then the doctor exclaimed a triumphant cry. "I have stopped the bleeding!"

Mycroft looked up, bewildered. "She is unconscious!"

"Yes, but she is not lost yet. Hurry now," Dr. Lecroix shouted at his nurse. "Find some more blankets! Fetch some broth. We need to get Mrs. Holmes warm and replace her fluids."

Mycroft stood from his chair. His son squeaked in protest.

"Is she going to recover, doctor?"

Dr. Lecroix removed his glasses and wiped his brow. "I cannot say. We are not out of the woods yet, Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Holmes has lost as much blood as ever I have seen a woman let after birth. God willing, she will pull through, but you had better prepare yourself for the worst if she does not rouse soon."

* * *

"Whispering! Whispering! Every time you return, it is another round of whispering. What is going on?"

Molly leaned over the table where Chief Constable Lestrade and Doctor Watson sat in corner of the Hammond Inn. After informing her that they had not yet found Sherlock during their latest search, they appeared to have resumed their contentious exchange from earlier in the day. Molly was fed up with the pair of them. Answers were not forthcoming. She still had no idea why she had been abducted nor why they had come to Port Hammond. She pulled her hands back from the table and crossed her arms. Her fingers would not stop trembling because, worst of all, she did not know where her husband had gone or if he was even alive.

After a restless night in the room she had been abducted from in the first place (albeit with armed guards stationed outside her door), she was tired of pacing a hole in the wooden floor. She hated feeling so useless. An entire regiment from New Westminster searched the Hammond area for Sherlock while she was forced to sit and wait. Every time Molly had approached her rescuers, they would hush their tones. Something was going on, something besides her abduction, the appearance of Irene Adler and the fire by the Fraser.

The two men looked warily at one another then up at her.

"We . . . we are just concerned about Sherlock," John stammered.

"Rubbish!" Molly replied sharply. "If I did not know any better, I would say you are conspiring against him."

John whacked his hand on the table and sat forward. Lestrade sighed, loosened another brass button on his uniform and imbibed in a mouthful of ale.

"I am not . . . ," John lowered his voice, "I am not conspiring against my best friend. If anything I am trying to thwart this plot against him. Oh, and you as well, might I add?!"

Molly crossed her arms over her chest and raised an angry brow at Lestrade. "What is your excuse for all this subterfuge?"

The officer choked on his drink. He coughed and blinked at her with rounded eyes. Guilt skittered across his brow.

"Do not look to me, Mrs. Holmes! I am also on your husband's side but I am bound to uphold the law. That is, I must observe the proper processes regardless of my own personal views."

She narrowed her eyes at Lestrade. "What is that supposed to mean? What interest does the law have in my husband besides his protection?"

"Nothing!" John replied for him. "Nothing you need to worry about at present, Molly. Really, we must focus on finding Sherlock. He needs your thoughts and prayers."

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "Thoughts and prayers? Hmph, a code for apathy and inaction if ever I heard one! Have you read the scriptures, John? If there is a God, he is not our coordinator. He is our companion which means he can only offer us assistance when he is brought along with us. If I do not care enough to get involved and try to affect change, why should God? So, forgive me if I find no solace in loitering and lamenting about the situation."

Still, no explanations were offered. Lestrade downed his drink, donned his hat and made his excuses. John just shook his head, apologized and promised he would check in with her later. Molly turned on her heel, grumbled and stalked back to her accommodations where a young man in a navy-blue uniform guarded her room.

"You going to rest now, Mrs. Holmes?" He enquired.

She puffed an angry breath from her lips. "Something like that."

However, the moment Molly stepped into her room and glanced at the empty bed she was supposed to have shared with Sherlock, she decided she could not spend another minute waiting for news of his fate. Her eyes fell on the leather saddle bags that he had packed for the night. She fished through them and extracted a pair of trousers, an extra cap and a shirt. Then, she stripped out of her dress and quickly changed into his clothing. The garments hung off her but she managed to roll up the hems for a better fit. She plated her hair, flopped the cap on her head and assessed herself in the mirror. If she kept her head down, one might assume she was a young squire or groom. All she needed to do was sneak out to the stables and slip away with Toby. She wasn't quite sure what her plan would be after that, but she would rather do anything than twiddle her thumbs in her room.

She was startled by the rattling of the window then. Her heart jumped into action and her eyes searched around for some way to defend herself. She was about to call for her guard when the window pane slid up and a dark head of hair poked inside.

"Sh-Sherlock!"

Though, she hardly recognized him as he climbed in through the window. His hair was wild and matted, his clothing was thoroughly soiled and underneath a layer of dried mud, he looked unusually pale. His light jade eyes drank her in a moment before he let out a long breath and marched in her direction. An instant later, she was crushed in his arms

"My God, Sherlock!" She cried. "Wh-Where have you been?"

"Sh, Molly, I do not want anyone to know I am here."

For a moment, they held each other. Then, he lifted his head and gazed down at her as if attempting to memorize every minute detail of her face. His fingers touched the side of her face as if she were a delicate piece of centuries-old lace. She felt just a whisper of his pads over her cheek before he removed the cap from her head. His lips trembled.

"Forgive me, I am a mess," he rasped.

A tear ran hot down her cheek. "At this moment, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

His lips parted and he frowned slightly. "I was about to say that. You have stolen my words."

Molly clutched bunches of his loose shirt in her hands. "Oh, I hold no special license over such flattery. Feel free to reciprocate-"

Before she could finish his head swooped down and he kissed her as if starving. A large hand pressed her small frame against his lean form. She threw her arms around his neck and launched herself up on her toes to return his ardent embrace. She too was famished. She was also desperately relieved and a sob bubbled up in her throat. Sherlock pulled back and cupped her face.

"Hush, darling, I am here now. I am here," he breathed against her lips. "I am sorry I did not come earlier but I needed to avoid being seen."

"Why?" She prodded.

He kissed her again briefly then let her go and began rummaging around in his saddle bags. He looked at her again, then his eyes travelled her entire length. He squinted.

"Are you wearing my only change of clothes?"

She put her hands on her hips.

"Do not change the subject," she admonished him under her breath. "John and Constable Lestrade rescued me last night after that smarmy Mr. Davidson and his equally repugnant friend dragged me from my room. We saw Redbeard at that house fire. We had no idea if you were dead or alive, Sherlock, but they and a whole regiment has been searching for you since yesterday. Your friends are terrified for you. Surely you want to relieve their suffering . . ."

Sherlock scoffed.

"I am well aware of all of this. I have been hanging about trying to ascertain what transpired. Do not fret for John and Greg," he snatched up a piece of paper and waved it around with a half-smile. "We will leave a note before our departure."

He was oddly energetic. His movements were frenetic and jerky as he jotted down a few words. When he was finished writing his note, he smacked it down on the nightstand and spun around as if searching for something. She did not understand him at all.

She shook her head. "Departure? We are leaving?"

Sherlock's brow twisted up. "Of course. Lestrade has come to arrest me."

Molly's mouth fell open. "What? Why?"

He stopped as he went to brush by her. His eyes narrowed as if he hadn't given it much thought yet. Then he shrugged.

"I am not sure. Possibly assault or trespassing but I suspect it could be for the murder of Gertie Friesen. Who knows? Who cares really? Lestrade is always trying to arrest me for something. Never fear, it usually works itself out."

She stopped his advance towards the window with her hand. He blinked at her several times.

"Are you mad?" She whispered harshly.

He tilted his head. "Me? Were you not planning to sneak out of here in my clothes? Where were you going, by the way?"

"To find you!"

His lip poked out.

"Hmm, I suppose you were trying to avoid detection. How fortuitous. This will make our escape easier," his hand slid up her arm. "I must say, men's attire suits you."

She did not think there existed another man in the world who could be as appealing as her husband when his eyes hooded. Even covered with filth, she wanted nothing more than to stretch alongside him naked. He seemed aware of her thoughts then. His hand moved even further up to tug her braid gently.

"And this," he murmured, "this I like even more."

She shakily clutched his hand. "You make my head spin!"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I should hope so. Now, enough chatter, we need to leave at once. I have arranged for us to catch a freight train. Do you have everything you need?"

Molly scratched her forehead. She was thoroughly confused.

"Toby! What about my horse?"

Sherlock smiled. "He has already been reunited with Redbeard. They await us in the bush near the Hammond station."

She resisted his tug towards the window. "Wait, where are we going?"

Her husband wagged his brows.

"We are going to the one place no one checks when a person is missing," he smiled. "We are going home."


	26. Chapter 26

Molly shivered as she leaned against the post on the back porch of her brother-in-law's stately home. The sun was almost set behind the thunderous clouds in the sky which meant a cool day was rapidly cooling further yet. She hugged her arms tightly against her body and clenched her teeth to prevent their chattering but it did little to stave off the chill of her soaked clothing. Exhaustion made her head feel heavy. It seemed her very long day was nowhere close to its conclusion. She studied the broad shoulders of her husband cloaked in a navy coat he had pinched from one of the soldiers from the New Westminster Regiment. The garment was so thoroughly drenched, it appeared black. She sighed miserably for them both. He fared no better.

Sherlock muttered a curse in front of her and rapped on the door again as rain thundered on the overhead roof. He rested heavily against the frame, his chin drooped forward in near defeat but he gathered his energy to pound the door once more. Molly raised her head and looked back at the yard where water thundered down so fiercely it seemed to spring back up from the ground like the fizz from a carbonated beverage. Melancholy began to set in much like the chill in her bones. It seemed that they might have to continue all the way to Ash Street without respite from the downpour. She couldn't help but laugh at the irony of British Columbia's weather. It rained harder and more frequently than its parent, Great Britain.

"Blast!" Sherlock rasped and glanced back at her. "Are you alright?"

Molly attempted a feeble smile. Really, she would survive. She was more worried about her husband. His skin was still very pale, his eyes a bit sunken and his dark locks stuck to his head.

"I-I am w-well," she lied through shivering teeth.

He assessed her through narrowed eyes.

"The hell you are!" He returned.

He whirled and was about to bash the wooden frame of the screen a third time when the door behind it swung open. A well-dressed, albeit thin and haggard man in his fifties blinked with large eyes at his visitors.

"Mr. Holmes!" He exclaimed. "I beg your forgiveness. I have been run off my feet. I did not realize you had arrived."

Sherlock straightened as if every joint was stiff and cricked his neck. He sighed.

"May we seek shelter here for a spell? We are quite chilled."

The older fellow nodded. "Yes, yes, please. I am so sorry. Do come in."

Sherlock held his hand back for Molly. She took it and allowed him to draw her forward and into the kitchen. He introduced her to Mycroft's butler, Mr. Gunn and his wife and the home's housekeeper, Mrs. Gunn. Mrs. Gunn was a slim woman with her grey hair pulled back into a severe knot. However, her smile was very warm. She offered to prepare them some tea which Molly welcomed with gratefulness.

"The house is quiet," Sherlock remarked once they had removed their boots and toweled off. "Is my brother not at home?"

Mr. Gunn shook his head with a grim expression. "He is upstairs actually, sir."

Sherlock laid a hand on the older gent's shoulder. "Gunn, my good man, your gloomy countenance concerns me. Has something happened?"

The butler glanced back over his shoulder towards the front of the house. "Yes, I am afraid much has happened b-but perhaps it is best if you hear the news from your brother."

Sherlock frowned but didn't linger a spare moment. Molly dashed after him as he swept out of the kitchen and practically stormed through the house like a thundercould. Both Mr. and Mrs. Gunn followed close on their heels, whispering anxiously. Molly caught only every second word but it was enough to understand that something terrible had happened to her sister-in-law, Anthea. Her insides twisted with fear and what little warmth she had picked up from the interior of the house fled her skin. She wanted to grab Sherlock and drag him back out of the posh home before he confronted the scene on the second floor. Something told her their hearts were all about to be broken.

"Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Gunn grabbed his arm just as he raised it to knock on the bedroom door. "Have a care for your brother. This last day has been . . . terrible for him, just terrible."

Sherlock's gaze searched the older man's lined face. As if understanding an awful truth, his eyes clouded and then glistened with moisture. Molly's heart nearly died right then as Mrs. Gunn sniffled and stifled a cry.

"Oh, no," Molly pleaded silently, "oh, no, no, no!"

"Wh-What am I going to s-see behind this door, Gunn?" Sherlock's voice was painfully hollow.

The butler wiped his brow. "Please, my boy, j-just . . . be kind to my master."

A tear ran down Molly's cheek as she watched her husband swallow thickly and try to squint away his pain. Sherlock's hand shook as he knocked lightly on the door. Mycroft's muffled voice invited them in, his tone was difficult to discern. Sherlock pushed open the door and everyone piled into the room at once, it seemed, leaving Molly straining on her tip-toes to look past them. She cursed her diminutive stature but managed to push her way through and stand next to her husband. Her breath caught. The scene was not at all what she had expected.

"Oh, praise the Lord!" Mrs. Gunn cried and gestured a cross.

The housekeeper fell to her knees and started sobbing. Tears of relief, no doubt. Sherlock let out a long sigh of relief next to Molly. They gazed upon a rather charming scene. Mycroft and Anthea sat next to one another propped up by a mountain of pillows on a large, four post bed. Mycroft had his shirt loosely untucked and sleeves rolled up with his arm was draped protectively over his wife's shoulder. Anthea wore a nightgown. A baby was cradled in her left arm. A soft tuft of dark hair spiked up from its tiny, round head. The new parents smiled down at their baby as if entranced by what they viewed.

"Oh, Mrs. Holmes," Mrs. Gunn sputtered as she took her husband's arm to stand, "how wonderful to see you awake. You gave us such a fright. We were all praying for you!"

Mycroft looked up at them with bloodshot eyes and a faint smile. He appeared tired but there was a quiet joy in the curve of his lips.

"She just awoke a few minutes ago, Mrs. Gunn," he nodded a greeting and glanced at Sherlock, "hello, brother mine, come to meet your nephew?"

Molly gazed sideways at her husband. His fingers dangled at his sides briefly as he took in that information before he shuffled forward. She trailed after him.

"Lord, Sherlock," Anthea remarked upon seeing her brother-in-law, "you look almost as bad as I feel."

He took her free hand, dipped his head and kissed the back of her fingers. "It has been a rough few days, sister, but not, I suspect, as trying as your ordeal."

She chuckled weakly and laid her head back on her pillows. "That, I cannot say. I have slept through most of it."

"You did phenomenally," Mycroft kissed her temple.

Anthea smiled feebly and her eyes switched to Molly. She glanced down at Molly's still damp men's wear and smirked.

"Hello, my dear Molly. Aw, you poor thing, what adventures has my scoundrel of a brother-in-law gotten you into?"

Molly shook her head as she leaned forward and tried to get a better look at the baby boy. "Do not concern yourself with me, I am quite alright. Oh, how beautiful he is!"

Her heart squeezed in her chest as she gazed down at the tiny boy. She became choked up when she saw how much the child resembled the Holmes. He had his Uncle Sherlock's lips and dark hair but there was something in his overall appearance that was unmistakably Mycroft. Molly wasn't sure why, but perhaps it was his miniature, contemplative frown between his closed eyes that made him so resemble his father, as if he were already dreaming of logistics and responsibilities.

"What is his name?" Molly asked.

Anthea looked at Mycroft. "Sherrinford William Holmes, is not that right, my love?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, what do you think, little brother?"

Sherlock's brows snapped together temporarily. He stared at the baby for several seconds as if lost in thought. When he didn't speak for a stretched out spell, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherrinford . . . Sherrinford is the name our parents considered for me and William is my first name. Y-You do not really mean to bestow this honor on me, do you? I have done nothing to deserve it."

Mycroft's chin twitched back. "You are my brother . . . my brother, in more ways than just blood."

Sherlock shifted on his feet as if he did not know how to respond. Mycroft's eyes misted, he cleared his throat and looked down at his child again. The Holmes brothers seemed to have become a bit awkward as if they had been emotionally tapped by their interaction. They loved each other immensely though, this much was apparent to Molly. It was lovely to witness but also very trying because it meant Sherlock Holmes was more than capable of love and needed it, in fact. Molly blinked back a stinging sensation in her eyes. Suddenly, she felt like an interloper amongst the happy family. For a moment, none of them seemed to be paying attention so she drifted backwards and out of the way. She watched from the entry of the room as little Sherrinford was passed to Sherlock. She thought her heart might cease to function as she observed him gently cup the baby's head and tuck him in close to his body. His shoulders squared and his whole form seemed to hunch over as if in protection of the tiny lad. His nearly black hair, now just faintly damp, fell over his brow in loose curls.

Only hours before, Sherlock had called Molly 'darling' and apologized for abandoning her to be abducted, but they had hardly spoken since except for Molly to describe her ordeal and the presence of Irene Adler in all her finery at the fire. After that, Sherlock had become contemplative and their exchange had been limited to the maneuverings they would need to make it home via an empty freight car. The train ride from Port Hammond had taken about an hour but Sherlock had spent most of the time pacing and talking to himself.

Molly finally turned out of the room, unable to bear the bittersweet scene of Sherlock whispering to his baby nephew. She padded back down the grand stairs of Mycroft's home and into the kitchen where she set about resurrecting the tea that Mrs. Gunn had forgotten about. Truth was, she desperately wanted to be a part of what was going on upstairs, to believe that one day they all might be gathered around a child of hers and Sherlock's but she didn't know in her heart if that was even remotely possible. What she did know of Sherlock's feelings was that he was inclined to reject them, and thus her by extension. She did not know how much longer she could go on deluding herself that he might come to love her.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as the whistle on the top of the tea kettle began to squeal. Instead of removing the kettle from the stovetop, she leaned over the counter and let the blaring whistle cover the sound of her sobs.

* * *

Sherlock stared down at the fascinating little human named Sherrinford. His mind swirled with a million lessons he wanted to bestow upon his nephew. In just a drop in the passage of time, this new arrival had erected a pillar in his mind palace, a foundation that he could fortify his existence around. Sherrinford was instantly a part of him in a way that also felt eternal, as if he had always been there but just chose this moment in time to make his presence known. Sherlock had only felt this way a few times in his life. The first was meeting John Watson, a friend who was more like a brother who had lived a parallel life. The second was discovering his wife, Molly, who wasn't so much a pillar like Sherrinford or John, but more like the wind and the sun and the weather that permeated and battered his every defense. Her existence in his mind seemed as immutable as any of those things and designed to force him to challenge and adapt.

Suddenly, he felt her absence as acute as an icy gust from an open window. His head jerked up and he searched the dim room. Mycroft whispered in Anthea's ear, the Gunns busied themselves tidying the room but Molly was nowhere to be seen.

"Excuse me," he placed Sherrinford back in his mother's arms, "I must go find my wife. It has been a trying day for her . . ."

Mycroft shot up from the bed. "Brother, before you do that, I need a moment."

Sherlock wagged his head emphatically. "No, Mycroft, I have dreadfully neglected her welfare. I need to-"

Mycroft stepped forward and began tucking his shirt back into his trousers. His brows drew together.

"Mrs. Gunn, if you could please locate and assist Molly, I would be very grateful. Now, Sherlock, it is imperative we have this conversation. You know of what I speak."

Mrs. Gunn bobbed her head in acknowledgement and scurried out of the room. Sherlock glowered at his brother a few seconds before huffing a sigh and gesturing for him to lead the way. They moved down the hall to Mycroft's office. Mycroft poured himself a tumbler of scotch and sat on the edge of his ebony desk. He slugged a mouthful of the deep bronze liquid, wiped his lips and sighed.

"I suppose you ascertained that Lestrade wanted to arrest you," he said simply.

Sherlock plopped into one of the high backed, leather wing chairs in front of the desk. "I figured as much. So, does this mean you signed the warrant?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Of course not! That was Judge Fitzgibbons from Vancouver. He is not a fan of yours, to say the least. I do not know how he came to learn of Gertie Friesen or the evidence against you but he was all too eager to issue that arrest warrant."

Sherlock nodded. His finger stroked the side of his temple. The entire scenario was maddening.

"This plot is beginning to grate on my nerves," he muttered.

Mycroft groaned and then paced the office. "Your nerves? Bloody hell, Sherlock, this could not come at a worse time for Anthea and I. What have you been doing all this time? Are you so completely distracted by your new plaything that you are letting these schemes advance unchecked?"

Sherlock's head whipped up. He was on his feet in an instant and slammed his hand into Mycroft's chest.

"Refer to my wife like that again and I will ensure that you have sired your last son!" He bit out.

Mycroft raised a brow before twisting Sherlock's hand to the side and kicking his feet out from under him. Sherlock landed on his back hard and the wind was knocked out of him. His brother leaned over, wagged his brows and let out a long exhalation.

"I apologize for belittling Molly, brother mine. Forgive me," Mycroft patted his cheek as Sherlock fought to renew his breathing, "that was badly done of me. As for this, I am less sorry. I almost lost my wife today and you presented the perfect opportunity for me to dispel some aggression. It is so rarely that you are not in your top form. Thank-you for this."

Sherlock gasped in a breath and slapped his hand away. "Bugger off!"

Mycroft held out a hand and helped him to his feet. Sherlock rearranged his borrowed clothing and smoothed back his hair. He would tackle Mycroft if the sod wasn't infuriatingly right about his being weak right then. He could not win a battle against his brother when he too was also once a highly trained operative for the Queen and still quite the fighter in his own right.

Mycroft smirked at Sherlock's quiet defeat. "You know, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble and just allowed yourself to be arrested, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted and returned to his chair. He winced as he sat back down. Mycroft's maneuver had strained every muscle in his body.

"Is that why you sent the whole regiment after me?"

The older Holmes laughed. "We both know damn well Lestrade never would have been able to subdue you. John thought he might convince you to go quietly but I thought you might need a bit more . . . encouragement."

"Your brotherly devotion astounds me!" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft slammed his hand down on his desk. "Damnit, Sherlock, your being here . . . this is exactly the wrong thing to do! I cannot be seen to be lenient on you. I could have had you out on bond in less than a day if you had just allowed the system to work. Then we could have set about rectifying the situation. Now, you look guiltier than ever."

"I am well aware of the optics but I needed to escort Molly home. Lestrade can come arrest me tomorrow if he likes."

Mycroft looked towards the ceiling in exasperation. "Of course, but you have complicated things immeasurably. If anyone finds out you were here, I could be removed from my position and unable to do anything to help you. Do you not see what is going on here? You are handing these plotters your head on a silver platter. This is exactly what they want."

Sherlock frowned as a thought gripped him. Suddenly the foggy became clear. He was nothing, an investigator for hire and no one of consequence. It had never made sense that anyone woul want to set him up.

"No, they do not want me, brother. They tried to kill me last night. I am certain they are after a much bigger prize."

Mycroft took another sip of scotch. "Yes, and what is that?"

"Not what . . . who," Sherlock murmured. "I think they are after you."


	27. Chapter 27

Molly jolted awake from a nightmare as real as anything she had ever experienced. She could still feel the hands of Mr. Davidson and his crony as they tried to abduct her but this time she had dreamed they had come for her at Ash Street. She panted and cried out in her confusion as she struggled with the blanket she had somehow managed to roll herself in like a cigar.

"Molly?" Mrs. Hudson's head poked around the entry of the parlor.

Molly blinked several times and glanced around. She was home. She was safe. She breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed her eyes. However, someone was conspicuously absent.

"Ah, erm, wh-where is Sherlock?"

"He went upstairs to shower in that ridiculous contraption of his, my dear," she replied, then thought about something and winked, "you better hurry if you want to enjoy any of that hot water yourself."

Molly dropped her eyes as her face burned but she rapidly disentangled herself from the heavy wool blanket. Mrs. Hudson smiled and flitted away, humming a tune as she moved towards the back of the house. In a few quick steps, Molly skipped to the bottom of the stairs and then paused to look up towards the second story.

"This emotion. Your emotions. I do not want them . . ."

Her legs turned to stone. Even after she and Sherlock had left Mycroft's home, they had not spoken. When they had reached Ash Street, they had both been so exhausted that they had collapsed on the seats in the parlor and passed out. Well, at least she had fallen asleep. She did not know if Sherlock slumbered at all and he had certainly not bothered to loiter once he had awakened.

The grandfather clock down the hall began to chime. Its reverberations echoed through the house.

"Hush, darling, I am here now. I am here . . ."

Sherlock had also uttered those words. She wiggled her toes. There would be no answers if she remained apart from him. Slowly, she climbed the stairs towards the bathroom on the second floor. As she approached the closed door, she could hear the sound of running water and the splat of fat drops falling into the shower basin. Her husband was wet and naked behind that door and suddenly it didn't matter if he loved her or not. She just wanted to be with him. Her heart sped up and her tummy flushed. All the other times they had been together in their bed, in his study, and on the Ramona flashed through her mind. At least in his arms, she felt precious and loved. It was probably terribly indulgent to deceive herself that way, but the greed for his touch began to cloud her mind. They could settle the question of his feelings another time. In that moment, she needed to an answer to the question of his desires.

Before she could change her mind, she slipped into the large bathroom, closed the door and observed her husband through a gap in his shower curtain. Amongst the parallel rows of metal piping surrounding him, he looked like a hawk in a cage. Water sluiced over his muscular form. He was breathtaking from his slick hair, to the broad strength of his back, the firm roundness of his derriere and right down the length of his shapely, trunk-solid legs. Even the numerous scrapes and bruises he had acquired in the previous day added to his appeal. He was a rugged beast, her beast, and something about that knowledge that she owned him in that moment excited her. She was certain she was the only one who knew him this way and what a fierce creature was concealed by his gentlemanly attire.

His head came up under the water as if he sensed her presence. The muscles of his back rippled, then he half turned so she could just see one brow arch over a pale green eye.

"Well, are you going to join me or just continue to admire the view?" His deep voice murmured.

Molly let out the breath she had been holding. "Erm, it is a nice view."

Sherlock turned again and pushed his wet hair back over his scalp. Her eyes followed a stream of water down his chest where it flowed over the ridges of his hard abdomen and farther still to the juncture of his thighs. She chewed on her bottom lip. His considerable manhood was already beginning to stir. She looked up quickly. Her face warmed. He leaned forward on the vertical pipes and raked her body with his sensuous gaze.

"I think it is time you took off my clothing."

Molly swallowed. "Oh? Why?"

She could not helped flirting with him. There was something in his countenance that was irresistible when his interest was piqued. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I would like to exercise my husbandly privileges."

A tremor coursed her body as his member jumped. She hastily unbuttoned the oversized shirt she had borrowed and shuffled out of the matching trousers. She approached him shyly, rubbing her arm nervously. He flicked the shower curtain open, reached out and drew her into the shower before closing the curtain again. The feel of the hot water on her flesh was heavenly but not as exhilarating as the glide of his fingers sliding around her wet hips. His eyes darkened as he brushed his thumb over a bruise on her right hipbone.

"They were rough with you," he said gruffly.

She ran her fingers over an abrasion along his ribcage. "I might say that I was a little rough with them. I did not go quietly."

His large hand moved into the small of her back as he stepped against her. "I will punish them all the same."

Molly nodded. "Mm, erm, okay but . . . would you be so kind as to work a bit of that aggression out on me first?"

Her eyes flicked up to his boldly. His eyelid twitched then his fingers slipped quickly up her body, dragging her hands above her head. He stepped her back against the shower piping and directed her to grasp the pipe above her head. She wrapped her fingers around it and sucked in a breath. Her legs quivered as she anticipated what he was going to do. He leaned forward and flicked a rivulet of water from her collar.

"Do not let go until I instruct you to do so."

Then, his lips were on hers, wet and hot. She leaned forward, pushing her breasts up against his chest as he kissed her. She gasped as her nipples were abraded by the faint dusting of hair on his chest. His hands slid up her body and cupped the soft orbs of her breasts before he broke away from the kiss and dropped his mouth to their peaked buds. Molly closed her eyes as he suckled and tugged at her nipples gently with his teeth. Her insides were a quivering mess. Her core kept contracting and washing with a prickling heat. Next thing she knew, his hand urged her thighs apart and a finger delved between her folds.

"Unh!" She whimpered as he found her most sensitive point.

Sherlock sucked her nipple deeper into his mouth. He stroked that sparking point again and then invaded her body with a finger. Her hips bucked against him and the finger plunged deeper. Over and over, the slippery digit penetrated her body, then a second joined the first. His thumb replaced the pad at her apex and kept playing it until she was a frenzy of need. Her arms ached as she gripped the steely pipe above her head and tried to tilt her hips up for more. Finally, he raised his head and kissed along her jaw.

"What do you want, wife?" He murmured.

Molly's head fell back against one of the pipes and she squeezed her eyes shut. She could barely think as his wet lips moved over her throat and his fingers continued to invade her slick cavity. His engorged member pushed hard on her belly.

"I want you . . . inside me," she moaned.

She felt his breath on her face. "You want me inside you, Molly? Are you speaking of my shaft? In some conversations it is referred to as a cock . . . is that what you want? My cock?"

She blushed furiously at the hoarseness of his voice and nodded. "Y-Yes."

She felt his lips on her cheek. "Say it. Tell me what you want."

Molly cried out as his fingers pushed deeper. Her toes were nearly up off the basin floor. The water had begun to cool slightly and turn tepid. The sex between her legs felt liquid hot by comparison.

"Please, Sherlock," she whimpered, "please, husband. I need your cock inside me."

It felt incredibly exhilarating to utter such wicked words. Sherlock kissed her again, probing her mouth with his tongue as his hands cupped her rear. One by one, his hands slid around the wet curve of her buttocks and lifted and spread her legs. She held onto the pipe as he positioned himself at her entrance. The head of his cock poked against her sex and then breached her entry like a small fist trying to push into her body. He groaned as he began to stretch her apart then his imperfect rod, a velvet covered column with its undulating exterior, dragged past her folds and into her inner sanctuary. It was all at once the most visceral and satisfying thing she had ever felt. Every time he claimed her this way, every time he stretched her to her limit, she felt as if she were made whole.

"Huh, yes," she whispered as he seated himself fully inside her womb, "oh, yes."

He jerked his hips, impaling her that little bit more. "Mm, hell, Molly. You ruin me. You have ruined me for anyone else."

"Yes, oh, yes, my love," she babbled as he withdrew and pulled her back onto his member, "only you could make me feel this good. Only you."

Sherlock began pumping his hips and propelling her on his shaft. She wrapped her legs around his hips and assisted his thrusting as best she could while holding on to the pipe for all she was worth. The water was becoming cold then as it poured over them. The chill of it tightened her nipples and goose-pimpled her flesh, the contrast made her contract on his member and he groaned aloud. Soon, his pace was so fervent and the sensation at her center so excruciatingly succulent that she found herself flying towards her finish.

"Oh, God, Molly, are you nearly there?" Sherlock grunted. "I am going to explode."

"Yes, unh, yes, one more . . ."

She nearly screamed from the pleasure but instead bit her lip as she shattered from the point between her legs. Her whole body seemed to fracture as her orgasm overtook her. Sherlock clutched her against him, drove in as deep as he could and his body jerked with his release. One, two, three times his cock spurted within her like a writhing snake. He shuddered between her legs. After a few heavy breaths he raised his head from her shoulder and looked into her eyes. A wet curl stuck to his forehead.

"You can let go now," he said gruffly.

Molly smirked. "I already did."

Her arms felt like pudding as she peeled her fingers from the pipe, dropped them to his shoulders and hugged him around his neck. Sherlock extracted himself from her wet core and helped her rinse. Then, he reached past her and turned off the chilly water. He kissed the tip of her nose.

"This is by far my favorite way to have you," he mumbled as he kissed her softly, "but I am definitely going to see about having a larger hot water tank installed."

She laughed against his lips. "You are a depraved man."

"Mm," he stroked a finger up her wet spine, "and you are shameless, Mrs. Holmes, whispering such shocking things about my manhood."

"Oh! You coerced me into using that vulgar term!" She sputtered.

His finger slid down between her cheeks and he gently kneaded her backside. "What did you refer to it as again? I think I have forgotten."

"You mean, 'cock'?" She rasped.

She felt the very object twitch against her hip.

"Yes, I do like the way that falls from your lips."

His manhood stirred again. Molly felt herself clench and become excited again. Could relations happen again so swiftly? She reached between them and grasped his swelling member. Sherlock sucked in a breath.

"Hmm, Christ, it is still sensitive but . . . huh. My word, little wife, did I not quite satisfy you?"

Molly swallowed as she gazed down at the organ that had returned to an excited state. Her thighs trembled. She wanted to feel him again, to feel the quivering of her nerves as he rammed into her body.

"You satisfied me very well," she said shyly. "I just find myself wanting . . . more."

He chuckled and kissed her languidly. "Truly?"

She nodded quickly. He blinked slowly then looked sideways.

"Alright, but my legs are burning. I think the floor might have to do this time."

They stepped from the shower. Sherlock shook out a towel and then helped her lay back on it. Then he covered her body with his, settling between her thighs. With one deliberate thrust, he was embedded inside her again. Molly closed her eyes as they rolled back in her head. Somehow, this quick repossession felt just as good as the slow penetration of their first encounter. The bundle of nerves at her apex already throbbed and the slide of his rod against that point felt like the building of static as he rubbed it. A deep groan rumbled from his chest.

"Dear Lord, Molly, the way you make me feel . . . it is insanity."

Molly ran her hands down his back and gripped his firm, flexing buttocks as he slowly pumped into her interior. The floor wasn't entirely comfortable but made for a stiff anchor point as he drove deep in a dive from which no surfacing seemed possible. He returned again and again, panting with the effort as he propped himself up on his elbows. Sweat dripped from his chest, landed between her breasts and rolled down her side. She lurched against him. Her body convulsed as if struck like a match. Her cries were much headier then, more insistent. The ache had begun to smolder. She felt like dry tinder about to ignite.

"Sherlock, um, please . . ."

She spread her legs, her inner chambers engulfed him as he drove her into the floor. Once again, she experienced the runaway combustion of her release. The smolder turned to a billowing smoke and she erupted into a fireball. This time, her body was overcome with deep, wrenching shudders and the rapid pulsing of her sex. She liquefied like vibrating sand. The sounds emanating from her throat were almost inhuman. With just a few more deep thrusts, Sherlock began to quake and his posterior tightened beneath her fingers. He cursed into her neck and slammed down one final time. His second emptying wracked his body with spasms.

They lay there for what seemed like an age trying to regain their airways. Every so often, Sherlock's hips would buck weakly as if reliving the intensity of their lovemaking. A soft curse would then drop from his lips. There were no pretty words or confessions of love but Molly had never felt more at peace. Sherlock was hers and she was his. In that moment, they belonged to one another and she decided that she didn't need to hear him confess anything. Her love would have to be enough for the both of them.


	28. Chapter 28

Molly awoke to the sound of squawking. She groaned and rolled over towards the source of the racket. Through the window on the door facing northeast that led out to the narrow deck off Sherlock's bedroom, she observed a large black raven bobbing up and down. The sky behind him was a dreary, mottled grey as if it couldn't decide if it was going to rain or not. Her eyes returned to the raven. The shiny, black feathers on the back of his neck bristled. He kept twitching his neck and lifting his wings as he appeared to be warning off something. A strange sound, much like a rattle emitted from his throat.

"Caaaw!" The raven enunciated. "C-C-C-C-C-Ca-aaw!"

"Bloody hell!" Molly grumbled and threw a pillow at the door. "Be quiet, you noisy beast!"

The pillow hit square in the middle of the door and jolted it on its hinges. With a higher pitched squawk, the bird flapped its wings, lifted into the air and then flew away.

"Are they always so irritating-" Her voice died when she turned and saw that Sherlock was missing from the bed.

Molly slid her hand over the mattress and between the bedding on his side. It was stone cold. Disappointment washed over her like a frosty breeze. She sat there a moment rubbing her arms before she threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. She grabbed one of her husband's silky dressing gowns from a nearby hook and ventured from the room. Their house was quiet as a church as she made her way down the wide staircase. Her fingers jittered on the smooth oak balustrade a moment part way to her destination. With a deep breath she continued on.

She was again disappointed to discover Sherlock was not sitting in his favorite chair. She frowned at its empty state, huffed, then a squeak sounded from under her foot as she pivoted and headed towards his study on the other side of the house. She skipped every second step through the main entry and hall as the grandfather chimed seven times, raced past the stairs and then to the back corridor which led to his hideaway. She swung open the door only to find that this room also vacant. However, her husband must have been in there recently. The coals in the small hearth still had a bit of life and there was a half-consumed cup of tepid tea on his desk. She was about to leave when Mrs. Hudson bustled in with an empty tray.

"Oh! Good Morning, my dear," she chirped.

"Good Morning," Molly returned shyly and cinched her sash.

Mrs. Hudson went straight to the desk and began clearing the tea and an empty plate. "I suppose you are wondering where your husband has gone off to?"

Molly picked up a napkin from the floor and deposited it on the housekeeper's tray. "Yes, he neglected to wake me."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I suspect he thought you were tired. He told me not to disturb you. Of course, Sherlock is Sherlock. He did not reveal his plans to me."

Molly swallowed and nodded. She couldn't help feeling the sting of rejection, however mild it might be.

"D-Did he leave a note?" She asked softly.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged as she picked up her tray. "Ah, not that he told me about, Molly. You are welcome to check his desk, though."

She hummed as she prepared to tote the tray away. Just before she reached the door, she turned around. Her brows raised expectantly.

"Would you like me to bring you some tea and biscuits or would you prefer to eat a full breakfast in the dining room? I could whip you up some pancakes, or crepes even!"

Molly smiled and sighed. "Mrs. Hudson, you are too good to me. I do not know what I ever did to deserve it."

The older woman frowned. "You have enriched all of our lives, Molly. Especially that of my darling boy Sherlock. I am beyond thrilled to see him so happy. That lad took me in and gave me an occupation when the rest of the world would have been content to leave me out in the cold, you know."

Molly wiped a tear from under her eye and sniffed. "Does he just have a soft spot for pathetic creatures then?"

Mrs. Hudson lifted her chin and blinked several times. "No, I would not say that for I have never thought myself as pathetic and . . . neither are you, for that matter. I adore you, my girl."

The housekeeper thought about something for a moment. She then wrinkled her nose, smiled and wagged her brows. "So does our boy, hmm? Well, what's your decision on breakfast?"

Molly would have hugged the matriarch if she was not carrying a tray. Sherlock surrounded himself with the best of people and he seemed to keep them. She hoped that he meant to make her a permanent fixture too. Finally, she found her voice again.

"Tea and biscuits would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, winked and left the study. Molly stooped and tended the fire for a few minutes. She slowly coaxed the hearth back to life with a few twigs and then some larger pieces of wood. When it was burning a bit more brightly, she wandered back to Sherlock's desk and sat down on the simple fir stool behind it. Her husband had been in the middle of something, it seemed. Her fingers skimmed over the loose papers on his desk and came to rest on a copy of the local paper called, 'The Columbian'. It was folded back on itself with the ads facing outwards. Molly's eye flicked over the listings. There were countless advertisements for Klondike-related supplies and expertise. It appeared that everyone and their respective dog had designs on profiting from those hoping to cash in on the Gold Rush in the far north.

She was about to put the paper down when she spied the faint outline of a pencil encircling an article near the bottom of the page. She began to read it, then clutched her chest. Her breath froze on her lips. Her eyelids fluttered as she scanned the words again and spoke them aloud to herself.

" _Notice is hereby given that William Scott Sherlock James Holmes of the city of New Westminster, in the province of British Columbia and presently residing in the aforementioned municipality, will apply to the Parliament of Canada, at the next session thereof, for a Bill of Divorce from his wife, Mrs. Margaret Holmes, gentlewoman of the city of London, England, presently residing in New Westminster, aforesaid, on the grounds of Carnal Abandonment. Dated at New Westminster, in the province of British Columbia, this second day of June, 1898. Sedin, Edler, Hansen and Burrows, 2011 Columbia Street, New Westminster, Solicitors for Applicant."_

Molly's fingers shook as she read the small advertisement again. The words swam before her eyes. The pages blurred. She dropped the paper on the desk and hugged her arms around her stomach. She did not understand. Her mind spun. It seemed like a mistake, but then, Sherlock was nowhere to be found and had not stayed around to answer for the ad. Her lungs felt as if they were collapsing in her chest. She almost could not breathe. Had he decided to petition for divorce without telling her anything about it? She didn't want to believe he would be so cruel.

She read the advertisement one more time. Mrs. Hudson returned with her tray and her usual animated conversation. She was about to pour some tea into a cup when her eyes went round.

"Good Lord, child," she exclaimed, "Whatever is the matter?"

Molly blinked at her through watery eyes and tucked the paper beneath her elbow. She did not know what to say to Mrs. Hudson. The older woman put the tea kettle down and wiped her hands on her lace-trimmed, white apron.

"Molly?" She prodded.

Molly sniffed and looked away out the window. "D-Do you know who acts as Sherlock's legal counsel here in New Westminster?"

"Oh, they're a funny bunch. A gaggle of Swedes and Frenchman. I want to say Sundin, Edmund, Harrison and Bureau or something like that . . ."

"W-Would that be 'Sedin, Edler, Hansen and Burrrows'?" Molly asked as she returned her gaze.

Mrs. Hudson nodded vigorously. "Yes! Those are the lot. I never cared for any of them but they handle all Sherlock's business. Why?"

Molly swallowed. "I think I would like some legal advice."

"Oh, yes, of course, that's why you are upset, is it not? All this nonsense about Sherlock being a criminal. Why, it must be very hard on you, dear. I am sure those fellows can offer some reassurance."

"You are right," Molly mumbled. "They can provide me the answers I need."

She hopped to her feet. "I am so grateful for the tea, Mrs. Hudson, but I think I need to visit these solicitors straight away."

"You mean now?" The housekeeper asked as she followed Molly to the door.

Molly wiped her eyes. Her hand then stilled on the knob.

"Yes, though, might I request something of you?"

She looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes, anything, Molly."

Molly cleared her throat but her voice was still a rasp of emotion when she spoke. "Could y-you not tell Sherlock where I have gone if he returns? I . . . I would prefer it if he was not . . . concerned by my enquiries."

"Oh, oh my," Mrs. Hudson fretted, "I suppose but would it not be better if you waited and then he could go with you?"

Molly shook her head. She swallowed a lump in her throat. "N-No. I have to do this for myself."

* * *

"Who put this advertisement in the paper?"

Sherlock stepped forward menacingly and scowled with as dark a look as he had ever felt cross his face. The thin barrister stared at him in horror. His skinny, black mustache quivered on his upper lip and his large, dark eyes protruded from his sockets. When Sherlock took another step, the man skittered away behind his modest wood desk.

"We d-did, sir, at your request," Hansen stammered, his fingers tapped nervously on his desk.

"I made no such request! I do not want to divorce my wife."

"Well, this is very peculiar," the solicitor stammered. "Very peculiar."

"What is happening in here?" A voice demanded from the side of the room.

Sherlock's eyes snapped sideways at the larger, portly Alec Sedin standing in the doorway of Daniel Hansen's office. Behind him, Jean Burrows with his shiny bald head and Henrik Edler, a very short, stocky man peered over his shoulders. All of them were dressed in various shades of grey as if they had decided on one bland uniform while at work.

"I am trying to determine why your firm has me divorcing my wife whom I've been married to but a couple of months," Sherlock growled.

Sedin tugged at his waistcoat and lifted his double chin. It jiggled as he spoke.

"We received a letter from your house, sir, on your letterhead with your signature requesting that we start divorce proceedings."

"Show me!" Sherlock barked.

Hansen jumped and frantically searched through a wooden filing cabinet behind his desk. He mumbled to himself anxiously as he fingered through the files. A great sigh of relief issued from his lips as he extracted a letter from a previously opened envelope. He whirled and held out the piece of paper. The page quivered in his grasp. Sherlock snatched it. His blood began to boil as soon as he saw that it was, in fact, a document produced on his own personal stationary. It was exactly lawyers described except for the signature.

"I did not sign this . . . it is a forgery," Sherlock growled.

His eyes flicked to the date. The letter had been written the week before. His mind pulsed with a thousand questions. Who had done this and why? Had it been Irene Adler or that strange Professor Moriarty? Had it been someone else? What was the motivation besides to embarrass him? Then the little details nagged him. How had the person responsible managed to nick a blank piece of his stationary to write these instructions? Had they been in his home? He thought of how he had left Molly there unattended save for the less-than formidable Mrs. Hudson.

"It is not your signature?" Burrows shuffled forwards.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the small man.

"I think I know my own handwriting," Sherlock bit out and held out his hand. "The envelope . . . now!"

The letter had been posted locally. Sherlock huffed in frustration as it was of no help. For all intents and purposes, it could have been dropped in the mail by anyone.

"Have 'I' issued any other directives via correspondence lately?"

Burrows looked at Hansen behind his desk who looked at Sedin and Edler still hovering at the door. They each had paled. Sherlock felt like a whirling top about to spin out of control.

"Well? What is it?" He shouted.

"Erm," Hansen cleared his throat behind him, "we have been receiving letters on your behalf for some weeks, Mr. Holmes. First there was the matter of your will . . ."

His voice trailed off. This was most likely because Sherlock had started vibrating with rage. He took several breaths.

"Produce them, produce everything! If there is a document with my signature on it, I want to see it!"

"B-B-But Mr. Holmes, that could take hours," Hansen protested.

Sherlock slammed his hands down on the top of the solicitor's desk which made him jump back against the filing cabinets.

"Then we had better get started!"

* * *

Molly stepped into the offices of her husband's solicitors which appeared to be empty. She glanced around the cluttered waiting room. Every spare chair seemed to be stacked high with boxes. There were open boxes strewn across the floor. She was about to leave when she heard the mumble of voices from down a corridor to her left. Tentatively, she made her way towards them until the angry bark of her husband's voice stopped her in her tracks in the shadowy hall. She hovered just a foot or so from the open entry, unsure of what to do next. She did not want to disturb them.

"I cannot believe how utterly incompetent you all are . . . as a whole, you are completely useless!"

"Mr. Holmes, we do not question your directives! You have sent scores of missives by writing before!"

"Yes, I have made small requests. I have asked for small payments to be made and the like but did not you find it extraordinary that I would have you carry out something like this?"

Molly heard the crackling of paper that sounded as it it were being flapped violently.

"S-Sir, we just became so accustomed to these correspondences that we never considered it was not exactly what you wanted. I mean, this was especially true after you asked that we initiate your divorce-"

"Oh, yes, the divorce! You are ridiculous, the lot of you. How quickly you jumped on that! Could not you have had a little more patience or were you so eager to start billing me that you made it a top priority without even verifying exactly when I would like to advertise in the paper? Had you done that, you could have saved us all a lot of hassle. It is out now, though, with no way to reign it in. Molly is going to be blindsided! Most of New Westminster probably already knows. I have no way to soften the blow . . ."

Molly covered her mouth. She stumbled backwards with tears in her eyes. Her flesh felt cold all over. It sounded as if Sherlock did want a divorce. He had not rushed off to correct any misunderstanding as she had hoped. Instead, it seemed as if he was just upset with the timing of the advertisement in 'The Columbian' and had probably decided to give his lawyers a piece of his mind. Her stomach turned over and she tried not to vomit as she realized how he had used her time and again.

As quietly as she could, she backed away from the arguing men in the office. However, she tripped over something and crashed down on her behind. She scrambled to her feet as she heard the tone of the voices change and the scraping of a chair on wood. Panic coursed through her blood in a rush of fear and adrenaline. She did not think she had the strength to confront Sherlock at that moment. He had already manipulated her and misrepresented himself and outright lied too many times to count. Without looking back, she fled.


	29. Chapter 29

"Oh, good God, you would be here!"

Sherlock hung his great coat on its hook and turned to face John. His friend's face was pink with rage. His bushy, blonde brows were tightly drawn together. For some reason, that did not at all disturb Sherlock. In fact, all felt right with the world. He was home, John was his typically perturbed self, the threads of a mystery as complex as a tapestry were beginning to stitch together and he had finally, finally come to a liberating realization about his wife.

It had all crystalized on his ride home from his solicitors' offices. Molly was an indelible addition to his mind palace. His wood moulding no longer retained an ebony finish in its interior, in fact, the stain more resembled the honey brown of her locks. His curtains had morphed to the golden yellow of the gown she had worn to the May Day Dance. His green, leather wing back chair where he centered himself had transformed into the dove grey of the frivolous hat he had purchased. When he thought about potentially losing his wife, of the possibility of divorce, every nail in every timber of his palace shook and a groan went through the piping in the walls before they knocked in protest.

He was in love with Molly. Of that, he no longer had any doubt. Yet, it was more than love. He was not given to sentiment nor bouts of poetry, but the carnival of words about his head were not only fantastical in their excess, they appeared as vibrant, liquid brush strokes painted by the most passionate of illustrators. It was the kind of disquiet that he would have thought excruciating if not for the bursts of mirth within him. He had once derided emotions as if they were the ugliest manifestations, but now he found himself comforted by their spectacle.

"Sherlock," a distant, hollow voice cut through the chaos, "Sherlock!?"

"Mm?" He came to and blinked several times.

John's irritated expression coalesced in his vision once more. Sherlock felt his nose wrinkle as he stared down at the shorter man. John paced back a couple of steps and collapsed back on the hall tree bench. His anger degenerated to a kind of worried exhaustion.

"Sherlock," his voice shook, "it is imperative we speak."

"Oh, certainly, of course," he waved his hand non-committedly.

Sherlock drifted past John towards the stairs. His mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the conversation he meant to have with Molly. His heart skipped several beats and tumbled in his chest as if it were an unevenly weighted barrel. Then, it seemed to find its footing and took off in a sprint. Would she welcome his confession or be wary of it? There were times when he had clandestinely studied his wife and observed the most far off look in her luminous eyes as if she lamented for the horizon. He was perpetually anxious wondering if he had become a bog preventing her from reaching her destination. He wanted to free her from the mire and then beg to follow her wherever she might trek. Yet, John's voice had become an irritant he could no longer ignore.

"Sherlock Holmes! For the love of all that is holy, pay attention!"

Sherlock's foot paused in mid-step. His head swivelled back in John's direction.

"What, what, WHAT!? Yes, I know Lestrade is hell bent on arresting me for murder. Yes, I know Madam Adler has herself mixed up in all this. Yes, I know it turns out that Professor Moriarty is a treacherous fiend. I know everything you are about to tell me . . ."

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs all of a sudden with her hands on her hips. "Heavens, what is with all the shouting?"

"John was just about to deliver a lesson in the painfully obvious, Mrs. Hudson."

Her lips pursed briefly. "Perhaps you should listen then. Your appreciation of the painfully obvious is terribly deficient as of late. In fact-"

"Christ," Sherlock cursed, suddenly impatient, "the pair of you need to remove yourselves from my orbit at once. I have an urgent matter to discuss with my wife!"

With a growl, Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair but his feet turned to stone. The nip of an unsettling thought began to gnaw at his brain. Both John and his housekeep had appeared, yet he still hadn't accounted for Molly. He shook his fingers out at his sides.

"She is not here, is she?" He whipped his head towards his housekeeper.

"She left some time ago, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson murmured. "She was intent on meeting with your solicitors."

The next breath Sherlock took felt like a cloud of caustic soda entering his lungs. His eyes grew so large they felt as if they might topple from his skull. Cold washed over his entire form as if he had been plunged back into the Fraser River. Someone had visited the offices while he had been there but left in such a hurry that neither he nor his solicitors thought much of the person's identity. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of that haphazard retreat again in his mind. He discerned a stumble, a soft gasp and the soft rapping of fleeing footfalls. He groaned. It was almost conclusive that Molly had been there. He was quite certain she had overheard something out of context. Otherwise, she probably would have made her presence known.

John sprang to his feet. "She has not returned since, Mrs. Hudson? You have received no word of her?"

As if Sherlock were watching a stage production from the back of a theatre, Mrs. Hudson's response became muted. The grandfather clock in the entry began to chime indicating yet another hour had passed. Then, John was yanking at his arm.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, we have to go find your wife, now!"

John's face came into blinding clarity. There were only a few times Sherlock had ever seen a similar look of doubt and fear in the man's eyes. The most recent had been during a voyage to Vancouver Island across Georgia Straight when a wind storm had blown in with gusts in excess of seventy miles per hour. Their large steamer had sailed nearly an hour at a lean that send objects crashing to the deck from every surface. Every so often, swells had caused the massive ship to lurch like a giant, drunken sailor. John had not only lost his dinner to an onboard lavatory, but his lunch and breakfast to the floor of their cabin.

"What do you know, John?" Sherlock's words hung in the air.

John's lips parted. Sweat glistened across his brow.

"Too much, Sherlock," he said hoarsely, "m-more than I know what to do with."

* * *

Molly knocked on the door in front of her a third time. Her eyes felt raw. Her tear ducts stung. She wasn't sure she could cry another drop but then, her eyes prickled and more liquid spilled down her cheeks. She leaned against the well-worn wooden door jam. Her fingers slid down the chipped white paint on the surface of the door. Misery engulfed her like a downpour of wretchedly cold rain.

"Molly?" A familiar voice called.

Sniffling, Molly lifted her head and turned to see Mary in the dim corridor outside her flat above Reichenbach Butcher's shop. The electric bulb high over their heads in the tall, narrow passage flickered, alternately bathing Mary's face in light and concealing it in shadow. From one flare to the next, her expression seemed to change from surprise to a fleeting smile to a look of grave concern. Mary wore a loose, white waistcoat and long grey skirt and carried a large sack of laundry. She also seemed a bit unkempt as if Molly had caught her in the middle of a busy workday.

"Hello, Mary," Molly cleared her throat, "I-I am so sorry to bother you . . . I . . . I did not know where else to go."

Mary hurried forwards with her lips stuck out in a sympathetic pout. "Molly, no, no, no! You are not a bother at all. Lord, but you do look a fright. Please, come in."

Mary fumbled with her lock and then ushered Molly into her modest home. She unceremoniously deposited her duffel bag on the nearest chair and cursed as it fell to the floor but waved at it in disgust and left it where it fell. Molly took in the unpretentious accommodations. Mary's collection of furniture was sparse, to say the least. There was a small, faded burgundy settee underneath the window that looked out over the street, a rugged pine dining table with an assortment of mismatched chairs and a bookcase fashioned from a collection of wooden crates. Other than that, she had a few odds and ends but her flat could have been a room at a boarding house for all its indifference to habitation.

"Oh, I know, it is not much," Mary said cheerfully after a moment, "but I have never seen myself settling here for all that long. I have always had my eyes fixed on the future!"

Molly nodded. Her face flushed with warmth as she thought about how easy her life in New Westminster had been by comparison. From almost the moment she arrived, she had been fed and sheltered in one of the nicer homes in the city without lifting a finger while Mary had toiled away as a nurse and eeked out a life on the fringes of New Westminster society. There was much to be admired out the slightly older woman and Molly felt terrible for doubting her warnings about Sherlock.

"Fancy some tea?" Mary asked with a smile, then her nose crinkled, "My, but your tears have dried up rather suddenly. Is it just me, then? You happy to see me?"

Molly couldn't help but crack a smile at the way Mary wagged her brows. "Yes, I think that is it. I would very much appreciate tea, thank-you."

"Great, come take a seat in the kitchen, such as it is!"

"Do you need any help?"

"Pfft! Sit down!"

Molly rubbed her nose and followed Mary over to the homey, pine table in the kitchen portion of the flat. Molly slipped into a seat while Mary set about stoking the compact stove in the kitchen (the kitchen was but a counter along one wall with a single, cast iron basin for a sink). Mary then checked under one of the stove ports and followed up by setting a small steel kettle on its surface.

"There, we should have some hot water for our tea in . . . well, at least a half hour," she chirped.

Mary retrieved some biscuits from a cupboard and brought them to the table where she scooted into the seat across from Molly. She leaned forward while resting her chin in her hand.

Well, what brings you to my door?"

Molly inhaled a stuttering breath. Despite Mary's cheerful demeanor, she still felt on the verge of another bout of tears. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again and looked away. Her eyes fell on the bag that Mary had been carrying where it remained on the floor with its contents half-spilled out. Molly had come to seek comfort but felt very foolish. What would Mary say? Would she be sympathetic at all after Molly had practically thrown her out of her house?

"Molly?" Mary prompted.

Molly's face heated again. She couldn't look at Mary. She was . . . embarrassed, actually.

"M-My husband . . ."

She swallowed. Tears brimmed along her lids. She heard the scrape of a chair and then felt the warmth of Mary's hand as it covered her own. She looked down at Mary's working fingers, her skin was dry and flaky from too much handwashing, much like her own hands used to be. She sniffed back her misery. What had happened to her? She did not even recognize herself anymore as she frowned at her manicured digits.

"Molly, you can tell me anything," Mary reassured her, "anything at all. I am your friend."

Molly nodded sadly and lifted her head. "Sherlock . . . Sherlock has advertised for divorce."

Mary's eyes opened widely but with less surprise than Molly expected.

"Oh? Oh, and did he come up with all manner of excuses? Did he pretend like he did not have anything to do with it?" She asked expectantly and followed up with a scoff. "Men!"

Molly shook her head. That seemed an oddly specific reaction.

"I-I have not spoken with him about it yet. I only just saw it in today's paper. He does not even know I know yet."

"He is not aware you are here then?" Mary's eyebrows rose. "Hmm . . . oh, well, I am sure he will have all sorts of excuses the next time you see him but you mustn't believe him! You do not need that man. If this is how he treats you then he is a scoundrel and liar and not at all good. That is a Holmes trait, I am quite convinced. They are much too influential in this city . . . a scourge . . ."

Molly's chin retracted. Even though she know Mary distrusted her husband, she had not realized how much animosity she harbored for him and his brother. Despite her anger with Sherlock, Molly still felt somewhat protective of him and had to bite back her defense. She was a little dumfounded and words faltered on her lips. Still stunned, her gaze wandered again and returned to the bag containing Mary's garments. She absentmindedly studied it, wondering why her attention kept returning to the spectre of the spilled skirts. Perhaps it was there rich hues in contrast to the lifeless apartment. The open bag revealed a garment of the deepest, richest red satin. It was not a colour she had ever seen Mary wear. Red was so unlike Mary. In fact, red was more the signature colour of Irene Adler.

"Oh, Christ!" John's voice echoed in her head then, "We have all of us been deceived."

Flames danced in Molly's memories. To her rear, the wood crackled in the stove reminiscent of the fire she had witnessed by the river. The kettle atop its metal surface began to hiss and gradually grow more insistent like a siren warning of danger. Her heart pounded as her mind spun. Could the woman she saw in Port Hammond have been Mary? If so, why had she been there? Did Mary have anything to do with her kidnapping and that inferno? Molly scrambled to control her reaction but even as she slowly twisted her head back towards Mary, she knew her friend sensed something was off.

"You look a bit green, Molly," she murmured.

Mary sounded casual but her low voice belied the intense scrutiny of her bright, blue eyes. Molly pulled in a short breath.

"I-I am quite well, it has just been a trying day. Um, it sounds as if our kettle has boiled," she desperately hoped to deflect Mary's attention.

The older woman's eyes narrowed. "Yes, it has . . ."

Yet, Mary did not immediately rise. She continued to study Molly closely. The whistle on the kettle's spout became deafening. Mary's head tilted as if she was completely unaffected by its shrill tone.

"Ah, Molly, what am I going to do with you?"


	30. Chapter 30

_"Ah, Molly, what am I going to do with you?"_

Molly fluttered her lashes in confusions and pushed down a lump of panic in her throat. There was no escaping Mary's piercing assessment but still, Molly tried to feign ignorance.

"Wh-What do you mean?" She laughed nervously.

Mary rolled her eyes and rose from her seat to attend the steaming tea kettle so pent up it nearly danced off the stove top. She grabbed a cloth and moved it aside. Its whistle whimpered and died. Mary split apart an egg-shaped tea infuser and poured some leaves into it, then popped it into a little brown tea pot. Ever so carefully, she extracted a pair of simple China cups and saucers from her cupboard and brought everything to the table.

"I am afraid I do not have any cream, or sugar for that matter. Do you mind it plain?" Mary asked.

Molly shook her head. "N-Not at all."

She hadn't a clue of what she should do except participate in the ritual. However, remaining calm took every ounce of fortitude she possessed. It felt as if a dagger hung over her head. In fact, she could almost feel its tip boring into the top of her skull. Sweat along her brow might as well have been a trickle of blood. She watched with apprehension as Mary poured two cups of tea, returned to the table and set them on the table. Then she returned to her seat, blew away the coiling vapors and took a sip. Molly wasn't sure if she should sprint for the exit or pretend like they were having a casual visit. Her hand quaked as her fingers curled around the delicate china arm on her cup.

"Molly," Mary began slowly, "I am going to be as honest as I can be without divulging too much sensitive information. This is for myself as much as you. I will start by admitting something I think you have already surmised. I am not who I purport to be."

Molly lifted her own cup of tea to her lips. She took too quick of a sip and scalded her lips and tongue.

"Oh?" She coughed.

Mary's nose crinkled. "Can we skip the pretenses? I have had quite enough of these kind of engagements lately."

Molly nodded stiffly. She supposed it was farcical to carry on so.

"Very well. Who are you, Mary Morstan?"

Mary smirked and suddenly, her accent changed. "Ooh, rein it in, there, darling. I am not about to tell you _everything_. This ain't a confessional."

"Erm, alright," Molly replied. "Wait, are you American?"

Mary twitched her brows. "Yeah, had you all fooled, mm?"

"I would say . . ."

"Sherlock Holmes as well, heh heh. You have no idea how good that feels. He's such a pompous ass."

Molly hauled in her next breath. "Mary, I must confess . . . I am so very confused. I-I thought you and John were . . . friends or something of that nature? By extension, that friendship should include Sherlock since the pair of them are quite fond of one another. Do you really hate my husband?"

Mary shook her head. "No, not really. I mean, there is a kind of charm about him."

At least on that account, they could agree.

Molly nodded absentmindedly. "Why this subterfuge and what has it got to do with me?"  
Mary took another sip of her tea. When she set the cup back down on its saucer, her fingers tapped anxiously on its sides. Her fierce façade crumbled and uncertainty flickered in her eyes. An intense sadness shimmered in her eyes.

"Have you ever set something in motion you were sure you had control of only to find it quickly escape your grasp?" She held up a hand and closed it around a phantom leash.

Mary stared at Mary's white knuckle grip a moment and then watched as she unfurled her hand like a blossoming flower. She whooshed a breath from her lips as if to animate the sound of a puff of smoke. Then sighed.

"You were just supposed to be another casualty of war, Molly Holmes," Mary murmured in a sort of reminiscing manner, "but then you turned up at the hospital on death's door. When Mr. Woodley came to make his claim and I saw the look of heartbreak and utter disappointment in your eyes, my conscience was stuck like a bloated pig. That is when the bleeding began."

Mary's lids lowered and she rubbed her hand on her chest as if she could feel an ache within. "I had forgotten what it felt like to care about anything. Suddenly there was you and John. Dear, dear John . . ."

Molly stared dumbfounded at Mary. She seemed much older and world weary than before. Molly had not the first clue of how to respond as Mary's eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, God, What a mess this all is!" She pushed up from her chair and began pacing the kitchen.

The floorboards creaked with each footfall. Her simple grey skirts flapped against her legs. Still lost in thought, she pushed back an errant blonde curl.

"Mary-"

"Damnit, I have put myself in an impossible position . . . impossible! I meant to atone for my sins by convincing John to help you. I never imagined he would enlist his roommate. Hmph, and who could have predicted that Sherlock Holmes had anything resembling a heart let alone that he would fall in love at first sight? Who does that?"

Molly's face flushed. "H-He is not in love with me!"

Mary slowly swivelled her head, blinked with heavy lids and dropped her chin. "That man is besotted with you which is honestly, one of the few redeeming qualities about him."

Molly's heart railed in her chest like an angry prisoner upon hearing Mary insult its warden. While she knew Sherlock was not a perfect man, there were qualities he possessed which made him so very worthy. In the months since she had met him, he had been responsible for some of the most joyous moments of her life. She had felt loved even if he never spoke the words.

She shut her eyes tightly as million little scenes snapped together like a jigsaw. The idea of Sherlock falling in love the moment he laid eyes on her was ludicrous yet an image of him formed before her mind's eye as if to repute that notion. His expression was the same slightly perturbed mask as ever, but she could see beyond it then. She could see that his annoyance had never been for her but rather, directed inwards.

Her lids flapped open as she had an epiphany. "If he loves me . . . oh, my word! He could not have . . . he did not place that advertisement!"

Mary stopped pacing and leaned back against her counter. She grimaced.

"I am sorry about that, Molly, but it had to be done . . ."

Molly's chair screeched over the floor as she pushed it back and jumped up. She didn't even have time to be angry with Mary for whatever she knew about that deception. She just needed to get back to her husband.

"I must go."

Mary held up a hand. "No, you really must stay."

Molly glowered at her. "I do not think so . . ."

Mary slammed open a drawer. Molly's breath froze in her throat when the woman she thought was her friend produced a revolver. Mary pressed her lips together and raised it with deliberation. The cold, dark grey metal drew Molly's focus like a magnet.

"I hate to have to do this," Mary gestured for her to return to her seat with the muzzle of the gun, "but I cannot allow you to leave."

Molly's legs faltered and she fell hard into her seat. Blood drained from her face so swiftly that she felt her skin prickle.

"M-Mary . . . Mary, what are you doing?"

Mary sucked in air through her teeth. She still had a pained look on her face.

"Believe it or not, Molly Holmes, I am saving your life."

* * *

"They are not here," John announced as he emerged from Mary's room some time later.

Sherlock slammed his fist down onto the modest kitchen table. One of the nearly full tea cups atop it fell over, its contents sloshed across the surface and poured onto the floor. He shook his head and dipped his finger into the remaining cup to determine its temperature. The liquid was tepid -not entirely cold.

"They have not been gone long," he muttered. "Twenty minutes at most."

John whipped off his hat and brushed a hand over his hair. His flesh had gone pale some time ago and colour had never returned.

"Where could they be?" He asked.

Sherlock straightened. "Where? Do not you have any idea?"

John's eyes widened to twice their regular size. "No! I am not Mary's keeper."

"But you wanted to be!"

The small doctor pressed his lips together. He closed his eyes a moment. Sherlock felt an uncomfortable strain in his neck at the defeated look on John's face. They were both of them adrift. He was not sure who appeared more physically beaten by this game, John or himself.

"That . . . that was before I realized I knew precious little about the real Mary Morstan," John responded in a hollow voice, "I am not sure I know her at all."

Sherlock placed his hands on the back of one of the wooden chairs at the table and leaned over it. Once again, Molly was in danger and he was to blame. His heart beat erratically as if it had been thrown off its rhythm. His chest felt so tight, he thought he might draw his last breath at any moment.

"Think, John, think!" He panted. "She might have lied to you, but you spent more time with her than any of us. Come . . . you have always been able to see right through me and I am much smarter than Mary . . ."

John snorted. "Are you so certain about that? Mary Morstan has been able to outwit us all."

Sherlock lifted his head. "Not you. You knew it was her at the house fire in Port Hammond. How did you determine that again? What gave her away? Are my deductive skills rubbing off on you at long last?"

John threw his hat at Sherlock. It clipped his shoulder and fell to the floor with a plop.

"Deduction had nothing to do with it! I knew it was Mary from my very first observation."

Sherlock's lip jut out as he thought. "How? From what Molly said, she was cloaked. Her face was obscured."

John looked up from under his brows. "Trust me, I just knew."

"John-"

"Sherlock Holmes, you great buffoon! Would not you recognize your wife's figure no matter what she wore?"

Sherlock dipped his head as his face flushed. "Yes, but I have had the benefit of . . . erm, well, some things should be . . . erm, never mind. Oh . . . oh! You and Mary? John Hamish Watson! Since when have you gone against societal mores?"

John's face finally infused with colour. "Mary . . . she's very persuasive. I offered for her but she insisted she could not wait. She wanted to ascertain whether or not we would suit. Hell! I should not have disclosed this to you."

A chuckle shook Sherlock's frame. Then he started laughing aloud. A tear rolled from the corner of his eye at the horrified look on his friend's face.

"I cannot believe you," John cried, "how can you find anything amusing right now?"

"Oh, God, John, I have never been on the right side in your books. Now it has come to pass that I am the upstanding husband while you are the libertine. You realize you have given me free license to behave in every moral reprehensible manner until the end of times and you shall have nothing to say about it."

Sherlock stood up straight. There was a spring in his step as he headed towards the small flat's exit. John scooped his hat from the floor and shuffled after him.

"No!" He protested at his back. "That is not how it works, Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock!"

Sherlock flicked his fingers over his shoulder dismissively as he strode out of Mary's home into the corridor. "That's exactly how it works, John, for I have never impugned you on anything moral whereas you have sought to lecture me at every misstep. The high ground you so smugly claimed has been washed away by your torrent of dissolution."

Sherlock turned so quickly that John nearly ran into him. He twitched his brows upwards.

"Welcome to the gutter, by the way."

Sherlock resumed his march down the hall. Mary might have lied to them all, but he was certain she was not going to harm Molly, not if she had been intimate with John. There was no reason for her to have done so except that she cared for his friend a great deal. However, Mary was deeply involved with something nefarious and he needed to find her and his wife before it caught up with them all. He gritted his teeth.

The fate of his his friendship, his marriage and possibly even New Westminster itself depended on his finding them and putting an end to this charade.

* * *

Mycroft walked into a scene that was quintessentially Anthea. His wife sat cross-legged in the middle of his study surrounded by documents while Little Sherrinford was cradled in one arm. In her other hand, she held up what looked like a legal paper of some sort. There was a deep crease between her brows.

"My love?" Mycroft queried.

She flipped the paper down. "Mm, afternoon, Husband. You are home early."

"Yes, my work was complete," he replied. "You look like you have just begun."

Anthea shrugged and glanced back to the paper. Pride swelled in Mycroft's chest. He was livid with her, of course, but the sight of her deeply engrossed by records while still caring for their precious newborn engendered an odd sort of contentment. He knew he could circle the globe several more times and never find a better match.

"What has you so engrossed, darling?" He joined her on the floor.

Anthea handed their son to him. Little Sherrinford's lips parted and his tiny arms stretched as he yawned. For a moment, Mycroft thought his son would wake but he snuggled against his chest and continued to snore softly.

"I think you need to recall the regiment," she murmured.

Mycroft ran a thumb over Sherrinford's little brow. "They are on their way back from Port Hammond as we speak."

Anthea nodded. She chewed her lip as she slowly lowered the paper she held. Her large brown eyes glistened with apprehension.

"I recommend you also contact the officials in Vancouver and Victoria and request additional men."

His brow shot up. "Why?"

Anthea waved her hands over the papers spread out. She gazed pointedly at each one before tapping them with her index finger. A frown distorted her expression.

"I would like to say I have a very good reason, but I do not. It is only the murky pieces of a puzzle but I am beginning to see a picture I do not like."

Mycroft swallowed. He too had felt a bit claustrophobic lately, as if the wilds beyond the city limits weren't so chaotic and something much more methodical closed in on them.

"Unfortunately, without an imminent threat, my dear, there is little that I can do," he responded tightly.

Anthea's head bobbed up and down slowly. She glanced down at Sherrinford, scooted closer to Mycroft and stroked their son's soft, dark hair. Her lip trembled. Then, she sniffed and laid her head on his shoulder.

"I-I understand," she whispered. "Well, little point worrying about it now, I suppose. It is probably already too late."


	31. Chapter 31

The front door to the Holmes home swung open with a loud creak. Behind it, the master of the household himself cradled a howling baby Sherrinford against his shoulder. Mycroft's hair stuck up at odd angles, his eyes were bloodshot and his shirt haphazardly buttoned. Any other day, Sherlock might have felt a bit more sympathy for his older brother but he was consumed with thoughts of his missing wife.

"What do you know about Mary Morstan?" He demanded as he strode past Mycroft.

Mycroft grumbled something unintelligible then cleared his throat.

"Hmm, greetings to you as well, my fugitive little brother . . . and to you I suppose, Dr. Watson."

John's footsteps followed quickly on Sherlock's heels. "Magistrate."

Sherlock whirled to face his brother. Another piteous cry issued from the fussy bundle of white swaddling cloth and dark hair. A tiny pink hand waved about angrily. Mycroft patted his son on the back and whispered some soothing words in an almost sing-song voice. Sherlock's eye twitched as he tried to absorb the incongruence of what he witnessed. His brother was being affectionate again. He felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten. The whole world really had gone mad.

"We may as well take this conversation back to my study," Mycroft sighed as he advanced past him, "Anthea has discovered some interesting information-"

Sherlock smacked his hand on the curved end of the white balustrade at the bottom of the stairs to gain his brother's attention. "Another time, Mycroft. Look, I believe Mary has absconded with Molly and the two of them are in grave danger."

Mycroft paused and turned slightly in the middle of the foyer. His leather moccasins squeaked on the floor under his feet. Then his right eyebrow arched.

He elevated his chin. "We are all in grave danger, Sherlock. Now, you have been willfully avoiding all of this for some time and it has come home to roost. A few more minutes will not make a difference."

John shuffled up next to Sherlock and nudged him in the side with his elbow. "What? What have you been avoiding?"

Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose. He expelled a long sigh.

"I have not been avoiding anything, I have been biding my time. I wanted the conspirators attempting to frame me for murder to become more comfortable."

John scoffed.

"Attempting? Sherlock, they have succeeded!" He exclaimed. "Lestrade is going to catch up to us eventually. I will be lucky if I escape arrest as well."

Sherlock turned his gaze fully to his friend. "A warrant signed by a corrupt judge from Vancouver is meaningless as long as Mycroft is the magistrate in New Westminster-"

A determined female's voice joined the fray.

"Mycroft cannot help you," Anthea called from above them. "If he interferes with that warrant, he will compromise his authority."

All three men raised their gaze towards the top of the wide stair case curving up to the second floor. Anthea stood in the center of the upper landing with her chin slightly upturned. She looked immeasurably more put together than Mycroft outfitted in a well-cut crimson tartan skirt and crisp, white shirtwaist.

"You know of what I speak, Sherlock," her voice was low with quiet purposefulness, "you have suspected as much as well. You cannot allow Mycroft to put his signature to anything absolving you of this crime. You must find a way to exonerate yourself."

The look on Anthea's face was deadly serious. Sherlock felt goose pimples crawl up his flesh. In that moment, he knew he had made a terrible miscalculation. Someone wanted to ensure he was thoroughly discredited but he hadn't thought it was much more than a revenge plot before that juncture. He had served as an agent for the Crown, after all, and in doing so, taken part in many conflicts where moral was a matter of perspective. He could think of multiple operations that might produce an enemy.

Chief amongst his regrets was participating in the enforcement of the ban of the native Haida people's cultural practice of Potlatch and the creation of Totem poles. In fact, wrenching the treasured carving tools from the grasp of an elderly Haida artist had been among the lowest moments of Sherlock's life. He would never forget the look on the older man's weathered face, a man who had lost his entire family to Small Pox, and the mournful tone of his voice as he begged for the return of his implements. The elderly native needed to preserve his family's memory, he had explained through an interpreter. The totem he had been working on was the only record he knew how to make.

Sherlock had just turned away, and despite his confliction, carried on. He was an officer. He had duties. What they were doing was for the best, Mycroft assured him. Later that night, the man's half-carved Totem had been burned as a warning to the remaining population of six hundred inhabitants of the once twenty-thousand strong island nation of Haida Gwaii. All because their so-called false idols would not be tolerated by the Christian officials who had never set foot on islands they claimed in the name of Queen Charlotte. The memories of that humble carver had gone up in smoke that night, and along with them, any faith Sherlock had ever had in the people he served and the religion to which he had been indoctrinated. His faith in his brother had been shaken as well.

"Sherlock?" John cleared his throat.

Sherlock shook his head as the ghostly vestiges of smoke cleared from his mind. Truthfully, his will to solve the plot against him had been lacking because he felt he deserved to be held accountable for his once blind belief in his government's superiority. He thought perhaps Mr. Carruthers and a few of his fellow compatriots of Haida descent might be seeking revenge against him and his brother. Mary's participation had been a surprise, but understandable considering how she championed justice. However, his sister-in-law hinted of something much larger and more sinister than revenge.

"What have you discovered, Anthea?" He asked in a hollow tone.

Her forehead bunched with deep worry lines as she descended the stairs. "A great game, Sherlock. One which we did not even know was in play. Come, I will show you."

Anthea swept by the detective and John and took the whimpering Sherrinford from Mycroft.

"Thank you, my dear," he sighed with relief. "Can I get you anything?"

Anthea smiled lovingly up at him as she rocked her infant son in her arms. "Tea would be lovely. Could you have Mrs. Gunn bring some to the study?"

Mycroft murmured an affirmative and kissed his wife's brow. Then, he took himself off to find his housekeeper. Sherlock watched his brother's retreat. It still confounded him to see his brother display such blatant emotion even though he knew how enthralled Mycfroft was with Anthea. Sherlock's heart raced again as he thought again about Molly. He had to find his wife. Just as Anthea was Mycroft's salvation, Molly was his absolution.

When Sherlock, John and Anthea finally reached Mycroft's study, a scene not unlike the one Sherlock had left at his solicitors' offices greeted them. Documents and files lined every surface. Anthea gestured towards Mycroft's oak desk with a nod of her head.

"Were you aware of the treaty process Mycroft has been spearheading?" She asked.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered. He held his breath a moment as he catalogued what he knew about his brother's recent pursuits. It was very little, in fact. His brows drew together when he realized how far he'd strayed from his brother's confidence.

"I had no idea about these treaties," Sherlock muttered.

"Treaties?" John echoed as he too peered at the papers.

Anthea nodded. Little Sherrinford sputtered a cry just as Mycroft joined them. Anthea started pacing and bouncing their little boy more vigorously.

"Hush, my love, mama has you," she murmured before she glanced up again. "I will let Mycroft fill you in on his activities."

Mycroft strolled towards his desk, cleared some room and spread out a map. He placed an inkwell on one end and a letter opener on the other to keep it from rolling up.

"Yes, I have been trying to secure treaties," he drawled as he traced a path up the map with his index finger. "I have pushing the government in Victoria to reach settlements with as many of the aboriginal groups in this province as possible for the last year. We were making some headway until recently. Then, the talks started to fall apart. It was disappointing but we took it in stride. These types of agreements are notoriously difficult to reach . . ."

Sherlock collapsed into a nearby chair with his hand on his forehead. "They are not just difficult, Mycroft. There are almost two hundred different distinct tribes in this province speaking over sixty different dialects and every one of them are deeply distrustful of the occupying government. It is an impossible . . . impossible undertaking."

Mycroft looked up from his map. "Yes, perhaps. However, I have ruminated on this extensively and the logic has led me to the same conclusion time and again. These people cannot be ignored as much as the powers that be would like to do so. All men are equal under our constitution. If the original occupants of this land aren't given representation, allowed to determine their own fate and are in agreement with what happens in this country then governance will seize on a great many issues when the law reaches its inevitable conclusions."

"What is that?" John wandered forward to appraise the map.

Mycroft frowned at John. "That they have as much if not more claim to this territory as we do."

John looked back at Sherlock incredulously but Sherlock quickly averted his eyes. His soul felt a bit thin, as if the revelation of Mycroft's intrepidness had eroded its outer shell and he could not endure John's scrutiny. He had thought his brother indifferent to their past but the pensive expression gripping Mycroft's features as he studied his map once again spoke of a deep seeded shame. Mycroft meant to make amends for his sins. Sherlock's stomach lurched. It seemed in the years since they had settled in New Westminster, he had been blithely playing the role of the grasshopper to Mycroft's ant. In fact, he had evaded responsibility for anything at every opportunity until a little doctor named Molly Hooper reminded him about what it meant to care for someone other than himself.

"Wh-Why did you not seek my assistance?" Sherlock asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Mycroft's lips turned down and he shrugged. "Well, you seemed quite busy with your investigations, Sherlock. I did not want to burden you."

Silence reigned for a moment. Then little Sherrinford started to cry again. Mrs. Gunn bustled into the room with a tray of tea, then cajoled the infant from Anthea's arms.

"I fed him not too long ago," Anthea sighed. "Would you mind checking his nappy? We just have a few things to discuss here."

"Be happy to, Mrs. Holmes."

Once Mrs. Gunn had taken the baby off, Anthea tugged at Sherlock's arm and dragged him from his chair to the desk. She hip-checked Mycroft out of the way, shooed John to one side and tapped on the map.

"Follow the path of the broken negotiations," she murmured. "One by one, they connect like a trail northward from here along the coast. Now, one could just chalk this up to a domino effect of failing negotiations; of one tribe's distrust influencing another's for example, but there's more. All along the same route, we have had disruption of police enforcement. Several outposts have suffered abandonment or outright attacks. We are currently seeing a massive migration of Americans up through the heart of British Columbia unchecked due to the gold rush. The entire north is unstable right now."

Anthea turned her head towards Sherlock. Her eyes were wide with anxiety.

"New Westminster and the Port of Vancouver are the gateway to the North. Mycroft is the law here, Sherlock. Nature abhors a vacuum . . ."

Sherlock jammed his hands in his hair. He wanted to pull it all out. He spun towards Mycroft.

"How does this all connect? What is the end game here with Mary and my wife? You still have not answered the bloody question about Mary Morstan . . . who the hell is she? What the hell does she have to do with any of this? Oh . . . Christ, and what about that mad Professor Moriarty? He is knee deep in this mess."

"I would not mind having an answer to that as well," John muttered.

Mycroft waved a hand downwards. "I cannot tell you much about Mary Morstan. Professor Moriarty on the other hand - well, he is not what he seems, but then, you must know that by now."

Sherlock's nostrils flared as he huffed in a breath. "Is he an operative? Agent? What?"

"No, the professor's gift is logistics. I would say he is more like a consultant. Though, what he is consulting on presently is a mystery to me. In the past he has worked for our federal government. In fact, our meeting here weeks ago was for him to inform me that he had been dispatched by the Governor General. However, I cannot say I was entirely convinced by that explanation because Governor Gordon mentioned nothing about it during his visit earlier this year."

Sherlock grimaced. "Consultant-"

Mycroft clucked his tongue. "Mm, yes, brother mine, rather like what you do but on a much grander scale."

Sherlock's nose crinkled as he glowered at his older sibling. Warmth stole over his flesh. His damn brother could never resist a dig.

"So . . . so you really do not know what Mary is about?" John cut in.

Mycroft's eyes constricted as he thought. "I do not keep tabs on random nurses, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock's head jerked up. "How about spies?"

The older Holmes' lips tweaked at the corner. "Oh, well, that is a different matter. A different matter entirely."

* * *

Molly felt a jab in her back. She frowned over her shoulder.

"Must you?"

Mary poked her lips out as she retracted her gun. "Ooh, sorry, force of habit."

Still, the gun never lowered.

"You-You are not really going to kill me, are you, Mary?" Molly asked wearily. "This seems a bit absurd."

Mary clenched her teeth and hissed a breath through her teeth. "I would like to say no, but honestly, you are being a bit of a brat. Would you just help me out here and move your derriere along?"

Molly sniffed and looked down the ever-narrowing corridor they trudged along with its dim incandescent lighting. She felt a bit disorientated. She wasn't quite sure where they were or what direction they were headed. The grey dusk over New Westminster had transformed into the blackest pitch. Mary had marched Molly several blocks down every alley and dark lane imaginable until they reached the back of this building. She seemed to know each step along the way and how to avoid every other living soul, except for the rats. Molly shuddered at the memory of the abnormally active beasts. There were a great many of them scuttling about in an almost frantic manner in the streets outside.

"We are almost there," Mary sighed at her back.

Molly nodded limply. They reached a set of stairs at long last, and started to ascend the steps.

"I do not suppose you are going to tell me why you are so intent on keeping me from harm now when you were perfectly complicit in my abduction in Port Hammond," Molly asked.

Mary exhaled a blast of air. "That was not my idea, believe me! That was the impatient stupidity of . . . arg, never mind. Oh, bollocks, I do not know what to do. I do not know what I am doing!"

Molly stopped at the closed door at the top of the steps and turned to look at Mary. Tears rolled down her captor's cheeks.

"Damn!" Mary muttered and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

"Mary-"

Suddenly, light illuminated the stairwell. Molly spun on her step to see a figure outlined by bright light. She blinked a few times until a man came into focus.

"Oh, I thought I heard voices," a lilting voice said gleefully, "hu-llo, Mary, brought me a present, did you?"

Molly's heart seized in her chest. The man's voice and curving, sardonic smile were unmistakable. Mary had delivered her to Professor James Moriarty.


	32. Chapter 32

Molly scrutinized Professor Moriarty from behind a small desk as he paced. He wore mostly black, save for the silver cravat at his throat which was a marked departure from the taupes and browns preferred by most of the men in New Westminster. His black hair was perfectly tamed on the top of his skull like a rolling wave with a bit of promenade. His stylistic preferences aligned with her husband's as though he endeavored to be prepared for a formal occasion should it arise. She found herself mesmerized by his every movement. Like Sherlock, he seemed full of repressed energy as if his body could not contain its multitude of thoughts. Intelligence radiated from his dark brown eyes as they flitted about. Verve pulsed beneath his skin. Every so often his fingers twitched and his head jerked. Strangely, he did not induce fear in her heart, only fascination.

Molly had deduced that Mary had brought her to the college where Moriarty conducted his classes but not yet why. Almost as soon as she had been plunked into a seat, the pair of them had fallen silent. She did not believe her arrival was expected by Moriarty. She felt they must have interrupted some deliberation on his part. The chalkboard behind him was covered with mathematical equations that had been modified and rehashed multiple times. The inconsistent application of each formula was the perfect parallel of the man who stalked between his desk and the board. There was something singular and purposeful about him much like the bold strokes of a few of the lines, yet his intentions were difficult to ascertain as attested to by the smears and scribbles laid down by an uncertain hand. The professor was a contradiction in every way. He called himself a villain. She did not know if she believed his claim.

Moriarty stopped in his tracks all of a sudden, cricked his next and inhaled a deep breath. "Mary, Mary, Mary . . . there is really no need for that gun. Put it away, please."

Mary's head swivelled from where she had been peeking out a narrow window between a slit in the faded, brown curtains. She quickly assessed the pistol she held aloft in her right hand with its muzzle pointed upwards as if trying to decided if she was going to follow his directive. Then, she glanced at the professor, shrugged and tucked the gun into her waistband.

"Happy?" She asked, her brows raised.

His nose scrunched and he shook his head.

"Hmm, no, I am still not comfortable," Moriarty gestured lazily towards the exit, "I would like for you to remove yourself from my sight. Yes . . . your presence bothers me to no end . . ."

His head rolled on his neck as he blinked at Molly with a maniacally comical expression.

"She is a crack shot, you know, and silly me, I stopped carrying a gun. The wrong people kept asking about the bulge in my pants," his rounded eyes skittered back to Mary, "yes, run along now. I do not like being at a disadvantage."

Mary pursed her lips a moment as she studied Molly with a worry line between her brows.

"Will you . . . take care of her?"

The professor slapped a hand over his heart. His eyes widened further in exaggeration.

"Oh, on my honor, Miss Morstan! On. My. Honor!"

Mary let out a long exhalation then hurried towards Molly. Unexpectedly, she leaned down and Molly found herself in a hasty embrace. Mary whispered an apology and some reassurances. At the same time, Moriarty grimaced, stuck out his tongue as if gagging and spun back towards the board. In the split second he removed his eyes from them, Mary produced her pistol, pressed a finger to her lips and stuffed it into the pocket of Molly's overcoat. Her eyes glistened as their gazes locked again.

"I have to go, Molly. I am desperately sorry but there is nothing left for me here," she murmured with a tremble in her voice, "y-you will say goodbye to John for me when you see him next?"

Molly was at a loss for words as she struggled to make sense of the situation. She clapped her mouth shut quickly without a rejoinder. All she could manage to do was nod. Mary hugged her again tightly.

"There is just a single shot," she whispered into her ear in a breathy rasp, "do not waste it on the professor."

"M-Mary . . ."

Mary shook her head, rose and backed away. Molly watched in stunned silence as her friend retreated and then was gone. She wriggled in her seat and slipped her hand into her pocket. The feel of the gun's cool metal was a stunning reminder that she had not just experienced a delusion. She swallowed. If she wanted, she could just stand up and walk out of there but uncertainty glued her to her seat.

"Wh-Why did Mary bring me here?" Molly finally found her voice and asked.

The professor stopped, gazed at her while scratching his brow, then skipped forwards and sat down on the closest desk. He was not a very large man, certainly slight compared to her husband, yet he exuded a wiry strength. She would not soon forget the damage he had inflicted on Sherlock's face either. The professor was not a man to be underestimated.

"Oh, well, I assume it is because Mary likes you," he replied with a grin and then glanced off at some phantom distant horizon, "I mean, I am delightful company, after all. The perfect companion for the end of the world."

His gaze lashed back like a whip. "Though . . . and don't take offense by this, you are not my first choice in Holmes as a cohort."

Molly frowned. The deep creases of it tightened her face.

"Wh-What do you mean by the end of the world?"

He nodded with a bounce of his head. "Oh, that!"

Moriarty hopped off his desk and held out his hand.

"It's going to be exciting," he practically sang the words, "Do you want to see it?"

Molly did not know what came over her, but she took Professor Moriarty's hand. When he pulled her from her seat, she bumped into his chest. His dark brows flinched as he regarded her with a bit of a perplexed expression. It was a disconcerting feeling, being suddenly aware of the physicality of another man. She couldn't say she was attracted to him but he did elicit a kind of visceral reaction. Knots formed in her stomach. The unsettling feelings made her miss her husband all that much more.

"There is something about you, Mrs. Holmes, I cannot quite pin it down," the professor murmured as he searched her face, "you are too, hmm,decent? I have the sudden urge to adopt an orphan. It's disturbing."

Molly studied his attractive face intently. Again, she was perplexed. While there was an undercurrent of volatility in his deportment, he did not seem to be evil but rather he more resembled a predator. She had glimpsed a mountain lion once during her journey across Canada when their train had done a mail stop at a lonely little outpost. It had been during a short walk when she left the confines of her car to stretch her legs and get some air. She had been a day away from New Westminster, her cough had become something quite alarming and she had just looked up after a fit. Cold amber eyes had regarded her from several yards away in the bush. Molly had frozen at the sight of what appeared to be an African lioness. It had hunched and seemed about to burst forth when the steam whistle on her train blasted and echoed throughout the trees. In a flash, the beast had turned and disappeared into the forest. Molly had just a quick impression of a scruffy hide draped over bones. The cat had probably been starving and driven by instinct in its cold calculation to stalk her as prey. She could not fault it for its nature. Moriarty had a lot in common that indifferent creature in her mind.

"You said you were a villain, Professor. Was that true? Did you kill Gertie Friesen? Did you convince that woman at the prison to lie to Mary about my husband? A-Are you responsible for luring me all the way from England to land in the clutches of that toad Woodley?"

His nose wrinkled again. He still held her hand, they remained toe to toe but neither of them seemed repelled enough by the other to separate. Molly's stomach flip-flopped as she imagined how Sherlock might react if he saw her standing so close to Moriarty. Would that wonderfully possessive fire light his eyes? She could almost see him flinging desks out of his path on his way to break them up. The professor's eyes narrowed and his lips turned down.

"What? Ug, no! Those kind of details do not interest me. They're emotional and messy and boring. They are simply rounding errors! No, Molly Holmes . . ."

Moriarty draped an arm over her shoulder and directed her towards the chalkboard where he swept his free hand at it in an arc.

"I am interested in the big picture, in the variables that affect the algorithm. The numbers," his voice thinned and became raspy as he spoke into her ear, "the numbers speak of destiny. Do you understand how consuming that can be?"

Molly scanned the equations spread across the board in a haphazard manner. His frustration was palpable in every stuttered chalk line. It was then she realized that Moriarty was not just positing theorems, he fancied himself an architect.

"Yes, I can see how one might be tempted to change fate if they thought they had discovered its design," she mumbled absentmindedly and sighed, "but how very empty a pursuit that could be."

The professor lifted his arm and shuffled back with a crease between his brows. He gave his head a single shake.

"E-Empty?" He repeated with a grimace. "Pfft, what is empty about figuring out life's construct? you are so . . . blithely obtuse. So ordinary!"

He barked a laugh and smoothed his hands over his hair. He shook his head several times as if clearing water from his ears.

"Of course you do not understand, how could you?"

Molly crossed her arms. "No, I believe I do, Professor. I can see that you are weary. How vexing it must be to have so little occupy such a great mind? Why do you think my husband is so obsessed with the little things, the bits everyone think are insignificant?"

Moriarty shrugged and threw his hands up. "Why, Mrs. Holmes? Enlighten me!"

She frowned. He was such an arrogant twit, and not in an endearing way like Sherlock.

"Precisely because they are not always predictable and yet, everything hinges on them. Whatever plot you are facilitating, it is not certain nor set no matter how elegant your equations."

The professor gazed at her intently for a few seconds, then smiled. His grin spread across his face until his eyes were alight. He then bowed and offered his elbow.

"Oh, you really have to see this, then, Molly Holmes. Shall we?"

* * *

Mary's mind clarified in the brisk evening air almost as soon as she had stepped out of the college. Until Molly had stumbled into her flat earlier that day, she'd had every intention of running away and hiding in some corner of the world but of course, she couldn't just leave Molly to fend for herself but neither could she drag her along indefinitely. She rubbed her temples as a slight queasiness unsettled her stomach. Throughout the day, Mary had felt progressively worse and she was beginning to suspect there was more to it than indigestion, especially since her regular cycle had been delayed.

She groaned and then whimpered as the full weight of her predicament sunk in. She loved that infuriating prat, Dr. John Watson. She loved his funny little mustached face. She could not bear to withold his child from him, even if it meant she ended up in a cell at the Pen or executed by her superiors. How wrong she had been! How misguided! What made her think she could ever separate herself from her conscience?

Suddenly, it became imperative that she find John and by extension, Sherlock Holmes. She looked around ruefully at the dark grounds and spied several horses tethered to a hitching post in front of the Dean's residence. Careful not to be seen, she dashed from tree to tree until she reached the mounts. She cooed and soothed a big brown brute before untying him and hefting herself into his saddle. He danced in a nervous little circle and for a flash, Mary thought she might be thrown. She swallowed against her churning stomach.

"Sh, boy," she leaned over and patted his neck, "we will go for a good run, you and I. What do you say?"

He snorted and his ears perked. Mary kicked her heels to test his amiability to riding away from his master. The steed pranced sideways a bit and then seemingly decided he was willing to go on an adventure. He lurched forward into a stiff trot.

Mary wheezed a laugh. "Ooh, you are testing me, are you? I probably deserve it."

He huffed through his nostrils again. The air had cooled and his breath rose up into the sky like a waft of smoke. She gave him another nudge and his gait smoothed.

"Ah, I knew you would come around," she murmured. "Well, come on then, I promised a run."

She snapped the reins and the lout reared up. The pins of Mary's coif let loose and her hair whipped back behind her head as he slammed his hooves down and broke into a run. She squeezed her knees and held on. She knew exactly where she would find Sherlock Holmes in his hour of need - at his brother's house.

A half hour later after the most harrowing, vomit inducing ride of her life, Mary dismounted her sweaty steed and stumbled up the front steps of Mycroft Holmes' home. She paused on the porch, gulped a great lungful of air and rapped on the door. Before she could even finish knocking, the door opened and Sherlock Holmes filled the entry like a Grizzly rearing up on its haunches. He surveyed her with the darkest look she had ever seen.

"Where is my wife?"

"Molly is safe, Sherlock," she said between pants as she waved her hands defensively, "she is in the safest place I know."

Mary clasped her shaking hands together. Their trembling quieted as John wedged himself next to his friend with his mouth agape. She wanted to kiss the stunned, yet relieved look off his face. Sherlock stepped forward menacingly.

"Where?" He demanded, his ire was scorching.

"She is . . . she is in the eye of the storm," Mary exhaled. "I left her with Professor Moriarty at the college."

Sherlock's jaw set. John skipped in between them with an anxious expression. Mary wasn't concerned about being physically attacked, that was not a trait Sherlock Holmes seemed to possess for all his latent misogyny. A wave a nausea hit her again as she thought about how horribly misguided she had been. She looked into John's face expecting disappointment and found only concern.

"I a-am so sorry," she whispered. "John, I have been so willfully ignorant."

Her stomach churned a second time. Then she felt lightheaded. She clutched at his arm.

"Mary?" John sounded panicked as he supported her.

She shook her head to clear the fog. Sherlock scooped his coat from an interior hook and spun into it. Mary croaked out a protest.

"Sherlock, wait, don't go to the college, not yet. You and every available body is needed down at the waterfront almost this instant."

The large detective stilled. He stretched his neck.

"Why is that, Mary?"

She gulped down a rise of bile.

"Tom Woodley has returned," she said shakily, "and he has brought reinforcements."


	33. Chapter 33

It seemed a fetid wind had blown into New Westminster. The temperature had climbed several degrees since earlier that day. Molly could almost taste sweat in the air.

"Ah, we have arrived," Professor Moriarty murmured through her hair into her ear.

Her face flushed hot. They had ridden together in intimate proximity on his pretty, black Arabian all the way the waterfront. In fact, Molly's back was quite warm from contacting his chest as they rode. She felt the skittish mare prance in place as the professor reined the beast to a stop. The horse's ears twisted back and forth. She snorted at the air. Molly sympathized with the poor girl, she felt incredibly anxious as well.

"Easy there, Princess," Moriarty cooed.

Molly swallowed as he moved at her back and loosened his hold from around her waist.

"Mm, well, that was fun," he remarked as he slid out of the saddle to the ground.

Her eyes followed him. It was peculiarly dark in the city that night, so much so that she couldn't even see the surface beneath his feet. There was very little ambient light. Thready clouds obscured the thinnest sliver of a moon. The normally bright gas lamps along the streets were dimmed by stirred up dust. Moriarty had additionally brought them to a halt in the deep shadow of a large, wooden warehouse near the waterfront. She glanced out towards the Fraser River. It was as murky and black as ink in a pot. She caught a flutter of movement and looked down again to see the professor holding out his hand.

"How chivalrous you are, Professor," Molly murmured.

He smiled while wrinkling his nose. "Aren't I, though?"

Molly carefully picked her way off his horse but his mount became impatient. The tetchy mare decided to trot her back end sideways as Molly descended. With a squeak, Molly slipped and fell straight into the professor's arms. Again, she found herself chest to chest with him.

"Careful there, Mrs. Holmes, we would not want to damage you."

"No?" She asked with a brow raised.

He seemed to feign offense. "Of course not! I have no desire to see you come to harm. You are the sun in my solar system."

She pushed away from him. "I am getting quite tired of these riddles. I did not think it was possible but you are even worse than my husband!"

He lashed his mare to a nearby post with a soft laugh, then nodded for her to follow him. "I certainly hope so, Mrs. Holmes."

Molly skipped forwards next to him. Moriarty kicked a pebble out of his way as they stepped from the street onto the boardwalk in front of the warehouse. Molly's toe contacted an edge and she stumbled forwards over the creaky timbers.

"Easy, there," Professor Moriarty whispered while she regained her balance, "we do not want to give ourselves away quite yet."

She cursed her own curiosity in bringing her this far but Moriarty had promised answers to what had been plaguing her husband. Even in the dark, she knew they were nearly at the far end of the docks across from Chinatown. She had been to the markets on the other side of the street and even visited Mrs. Chan's infamous store stocked to the ceiling with barrels of dried oddities. In fact, if something was even remotely edible, chances were it could be found eviserated in enough quantity in her store to last a lifetime.

"This cannot be normal," she muttered as she tried to discern shapes in the gloom, "the waterfront is much too dark."

The professor laughed. "Ah, you are observant. Yes, in fact, there are very few lanterns lit. The shadows are long, mm?"

"Something tells me you know exactly why this is," she sighed, "have you any intention of telling what this is about? Why are we here?"

He chuckled. His gleaming white teeth contrasted against the dusky tone of his skin.

"Ironically enough, it is about impatience. American impatience to be exact. Really, one little setback and they let their whole plan go to hell-"

Molly heard the murmur of voices and froze. The professor gripped her wrist and pulled her into behind a stack of crates. She peered around the edge of the wooden boxes and observed two men walking with a lantern. One was a shorter, portly man while the other cut a taller, elegant profile. She squinted as they passed in front of the bow of a large, wood-hulled cargo ship with towering masts. The figures of the men were quite familiar, in fact. She held her breath as they neared. Then the lamp swung up as they came to a halt in front of the next massive ship. She stifled a gasp with the palm of her hand. Even at a distance, the faces of the two males made her feel ill. They were none other than Tom Woodley and the sneaky rat from Port Hammond who tried to abduct her, George Davidson. The muscles tightened up her spine right to the base of her skull so suddenly that she thought the bones in her neck might fracture. This particular pairing of men was like a nightmare come to life. She struggled to keep focus as a kind of stiff panic gripped the remainder of her body. She heard the low laughter of Moriarty to her side.

"Are you beginning to understand what transpires, Mrs. Holmes?"

"I -I . . ."

Molly strained to discern their voices and realized there was more going on than the meeting of two criminals. From above them, activity could be heard aboard the ships. There was the movement of countless feet over the decks, orders being barked back and forth, and the movement of heavy items over wooden decking. The din was unmistakable, like an orchestral swell preceding a symphony.

"Oh my God, they are planning an-an attack," Molly sputtered between breaths as she whirled to confront her companion, "and you knew! You knew about this! Who are they after? My husband?"

Moriarty's teeth flashed again. He grimaced in disgust.

"Sherlock Holmes is but a minor conquest to this lot. Three ships full of men are moored. You think too much of him. They are hardly all needed to neutralize such a man."

She crossed her arms. "Oh? Are you so positive?"

He snorted. Then something in his demeanor changed like a switch. Light glinted from his nearly black eyes. He clenched his teeth and stretched his neck. She slunk back further into the corner between the crates and the rough wall of the warehouse.

"They are not after one man. It is not an attack," he lilted as he leaned forward and wagged his brows, "it is an invasion."

Molly wasn't sure if an arctic breeze blew over her or if it was just the icy grip of horror seizing her being as his words sunk in. Her stomach felt like a trap door opened at its bottom. The world seemed to shift beneath her feet. It couldn't be true! He was talking about war. Her lovely new home would never be the same.

"You really are a villain," she choked on a whisper.

He smiled crookedly. "Did you ever doubt it?"

She swallowed. "I did. Dear lord, I did. I thought you were playing a-a part."

His eyelid twitched and again, she found herself questioning her sanity because he just didn't seem invested in his own words. She could have sworn his smile was pained.

"I hope I was entertaining."

Molly gritted her teeth. "People are going to die. Good, honest, loyal Canadians will defend this city to their last breaths. Have you no morals nor conscience? Wh-Why would you support something like this?"

"You ask why like you expect a simple answer," Moriarty complained and then lifted his shoulders weakly, "puh, as if there is such a thing as a right side and a wrong side to be on. So, 'why?', you ask."

His hand sprang from his side like a striking cobra and snatched up her wrist. He yanked her from the corner.

"Why? Well . . . because not everyone suffers the same tangibility of conscience, Molly Holmes. I live in the shades and shadows and walk through the greyscape when those are not available," he smirked, "my lens is never quite as in focus as some."

Molly knew what he intended to do in a moment of sheer terror. She could see it in his eyes but try as she might, she could not free herself from his grasp. In an instant, she was hauled from behind the crates and shoved into the middle of the boardwalk. She stumbled to a stop in full view of anyone who bothered to look. Suddenly, all movement at the far end of the docks ceased.

"Mr. Woodley! Mr. Davidson!" The professor called in a gleeful, warbling voice. "Surely you were not planning to start the festivities without your mascot."

* * *

Sherlock felt a hand grab his arm. He jerked his head sideways to glower at John. His friend wagged his head and blinked at him expectantly from beneath the brim of his favorite derby.

"Do not," John murmured.

"That is my wife!"

"Behind her are three ships full of men," John whispered harshly as they stooped behind some barrels at the opposite end of the wharves from where Molly had been shoved into view, "we cannot hope to rescue her right at this moment. We are ridiculously outnumbered."

Sherlock growled and sat back on his knees. He rearranged his own wide brimmed leather hat. He contemplated discarding it. A warm front had moved in and the air felt desert dry.

"We cannot wait for the regiment," he growled. "It could take them hours to return from Port Hammond."

"Whose fault is that, I wonder," John muttered.

"Not mine!" Sherlock hissed as he jabbed a finger at him, "I did not drag our city's only defenses up the river. God, what were you all thinking?"

John's forehead bunched angrily. "Never mind that now, what is your plan? You always have a plan. Think!"

Sherlock peered over the barrels again and watched as Molly was dragged into the nearest warehouse by Tom Woodley and the young fellow they had encountered on the Ramona. Her small fists were balled and her chin raised in defiance. His nostrils flared. Scalding breaths poured from his nose. He was going to kill every one of the men who dared manhandle his tiny wife. He watched the slim form of Professor Moriarty follow them into the building through a twitching eyelid. It was fortuitous that they were taking her away from the open expanse of the docks where the ships were laden with an attacking army. He and John might actually have a chance to rescue her from inside the large building if they were out of sight of the legions. He drew in a breath.

"This is Dunlevy's warehouse. They stock animal feed here, hay mostly. There is a storeroom at this end with a small window," Sherlock panted between breaths, his chest felt tight, "f-from there, we might be able to find our way to the loft above the main floor u-undetected."

John inched forward. "Alright, and then?"

"We should be able to pick off her captors with a few well placed shots. If we are successful, we can extract my wife from the jaws of this serpent," Sherlock stood up and shakily pulled back the hammer on his pistol, "and then cut off its head."

His companion retrieved his own weapon a bit more confidently. "Do you think this coup will fall apart without proper leadership?"

Sherlock's head went sideways as he ruminated over that possibility. Several different scenarios played out through his mind, none of them good.

"I do not know. These men seek to initiate war. John," Sherlock felt a great wash of desolation pour over him and his constitution faltered, "I-I suspect we have already lost New Westminster. Whatever happens tonight, even if the regiment arrives in time, our city will be forever altered. All we can hope to do in these next few hours is keep our loved ones and as many of our fellow townsfolk as possible alive."

John's lips turned down a moment and he looked at the planks beneath his feet in contemplation. After a quick nod he raised his eyes.

"Well, it has been a few years since I was in a war," he laughed sadly, "I was wondering when another would find me."

Sherlock wheezed a humorless laugh of his own. "Missed it, did you?"

John's smile was tight. He shook his head just once.

"Not at all."

He sighed. Then bobbed his head as he prepared his next words.

"See," he began roughly, "I have had the privilege of your friendship that last few years. I cannot say I have ever found myself bored."

Sherlock swallowed against a restricted throat. He was at a loss of words for a brief spell. He coughed a few times and finally managed to rasp out a rejoinder.

"I . . . I must apologize for my oversight in this, John. I should have foreseen what was to come-"

The small doctor waved his hand dismissively. "And? How would that have changed anything? You are but one man, Sherlock Holmes. A great man, yes, but you could no more have prevented this than stopped a runaway locomotive by jumping in its path. So, I will entertain no more of your self-recriminations. Come, we have limited time. Let us rescue your wife."

John stretched to his full height. Sherlock reached out and gripped his shoulder. He hoped for a moment in his future, a moment in which he could have tea in the parlor of 221 Ash Street with the people he loved most. There weren't many times he coveted that kind of quiet but at that instant, it seemed like the very picture of heaven. That thought would keep him going that night, he vowed. He envisioned Molly at his side, John writing one of his articles, Mrs. Hudson humming a tune as she mended some article of clothing all while Mycroft bounced his boy on his knee and Anthea gazed on. This was what he would fight for. He sucked in a breath.

"Thank-you, John. Thank you . . . for everything."

John pressed his lips and looked away a moment. Then he cleared his throat.

"Ahem, well, shall we then? I must say, I am rather anxious to shoot some bad men."

Sherlock felt the corners of his lips pull up into a wicked smile. "Yes, so am I."


	34. Chapter 34

Sherlock crouched low as he crept along the loft above the massive warehouse filled with feed. His hair brushed along the sloping roof and a fine dust fell to his shoulders. There was not a lot of room to maneuver and a fall of more than ten feet if any of the loose floor boards gave way. The boards weren't even nailed down. They had just loosely been thrown up between the rafters to provide extra storage space. He heard John curse quietly at his back as one of the planks wobbled beneath his feet. Sherlock snapped his head in time to see John steady himself. He exhaled a sigh of relief. Then he returned his attention to the scene below.

The feed was piled high in bails as well as stalls full of grain and loose hay. No doubt the large freighters out front didn't attract much attention because they could be explained away as transport for the overstocked goods. He paused as he tried to gauge the number of people inside the building. A bead of sweat dribbled down his temple.

"God almighty!" John cursed under his breath just at his back. "It is like a furnace up here, Sherlock."

Sherlock wiped his brow. He shuffled out of his coat, rolled it up and put it aside.

"Yes, well, heat rises, I suppose. Remind me where I left my coat when we're finished with all this, will you?"

John snorted. "Right. You have an eidetic memory, ahem . . . in case you forgot."

Sherlock couldn't help smiling as he turned to reply to his friend's cheeky response. "No, impossible."

Both of their shoulders began to shake as they suppressed laughter. Sherlock sat back on his behind a moment.

"Christ, stop it! This is serious!" He hissed.

John dashed away a tear. "Yes, yes, let us get to it. I count six men . . . Tom Woodley, that other fellow who tried to kidnap your wife, two henchmen by the main doors, Professor Moriarty, and of course, Molly herself. Did I miss anyone?"

Sherlock leaned over the edge of the loft. He and John were mid-way between the two ends of the long building. The two large men at the East end of the warehouse gabbed at one another with all the obliviousness of conquerors who thought their conquest was already assured. Sherlock's jaw set as he glanced in the opposite direction. At the far west end, Woodley shoved Molly into an office-type room built beneath the loft running parallel to theirs. Once Molly entered the room, Woodley and Davidson followed her inside. Moriarty jauntily trailed them but then paused and turned his head. Sherlock grabbed John's shirt and tugged him back into the shadows just as the professor narrowed his eyes. He scanned their loft but then shrugged and continued on whistling, 'God Save the Queen'. He followed up with a kind of side-step and a hop and disappeared after the other two. Sherlock scrambled forward to get a better look at the room, but the sole window closest to them had curtains drawn. A board creaked beneath him and a few bits of dry hay fell below. They swirled and landed silently, much to his relief.

"As always, John, you see but you do not observe," he panted under his breath. "What brings this disparate group of people together? Who is the person who unifies them?"

John inched forward again and squatted beside his friend. He followed Sherlock's example and discarded his coat as well.

"I . . . I thought perhaps the professor was the plotter, or maybe Woodley?"

"No," Sherlock murmured as he scrutinized the two guards a second time, "Tom Woodley barely has enough mental acuity to dress himself in the morning let alone plan something of this magnitude. The professor, on the other hand, has more than his share of mental acumen and it would not surprise me if he was at least partly responsible for tonight's events."

John sniffed and scratched his nose. "But I gather you do not think he is the man in charge."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "Moriarty is not an apex predator. He is a coyote circling the periphery. He waits for others to take down prey and in the chaos of the kill, snatches the sustenance he needs. He cares not for any particular order, only that he follows the hunters most likely to keep him fed."

"Hmm, pest then?" John smiled.

"Most definitely," Sherlock dipped his head.

"What do we do about him?"

"What does one usually do with pests, John?" Sherlock asked through his teeth.

John raised his brows then bobbed his head once. "Right."

"However, fist we need to dispatch those men," Sherlock gestured down the length of the warehouse, "and quietly."

Sherlock scrutinized the surrounding area on the loft. Above them, open windows ran along the raised ridge of the roof for ventilation. A few feet from their location, just under those windows on the sloped underside of the roof were some long poles on hooks. He shuffled forward and lifted one down to see it had a metal end that was shaped into a pointed end with a curved perpendicular blade out to one side. He fed it back to John and procured a second for himself.

"These pike poles will do the trick," Sherlock said while John inspected the fearsome instrument.

John blinked at him incredulously. "Wh- are we going to-?"

Sherlock looked from John to the blade and back again. "Oh, good God, John, we are not going to pluck them from the floor by the pikes, we are just going to knock them out!"

John blew a sigh of relief. "Erm, it seemed a rather gruesome end."

Sherlock harrumphed. "They probably deserve it and up until a few months ago, I do not think I would have hesitated to take their lives. However, I doubt very much if my wife would approve of me gratuitously skewering anyone on her behalf."

He held up a finger as John opened his mouth to speak.

"Do not make an utterance about this. Just . . . do not."

John clapped his mouth shut and smiled. In a few heartbeats, they sneaked closer to where the guards lounged about. With a few emphatic gesticulations, the friends made a plan for an attack and waited. After a minute or two passed, an opportunity arose. One of the guards turned away to light a cigarette. Sherlock wielded his pike and swung the non-lethal end of it while the smoker was distracted and knocked his partner in the temple. The fellow with the cigarette whirled at the sound and was promptly whacked by John. The cigarette sparked and flew from his lips as if it were spit. Like toppling trees, the pair of them teetered and collapsed in silent heaps. When it was apparent neither of them were moving, Sherlock retracted his pole.

John chuckled. "Hmm, well, that went even better than anticipated."

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured, "now let us hope Molly's retrieval is just as successful."

He turned to head back down the loft. John grabbed his arm.

"Ah, we are not planning to be as altruistic towards the men inside that office, are we?"

Sherlock shook his head. His nose scrunched.

"No, not at all."

The two men skulked along the loft until the encountered a ladder leading to the floor of the warehouse. They plodded silently past the brimming enclaves of feed until they at last reached the office. Sherlock held his finger to his mouth and indicated John should remain by the door. Voices rumbled from within but their words were muffled and indiscernible. He skipped over to the window and peered through a crack in the coverings.

His eye was immediately drawn to Molly standing rigid with a look of horror upon her face that made his skin prickle in fear. He quickly followed her wide-eyed gaze to the figure of a man dressed in a white shirt and tan trousers as well as a brown, wool coat. There was nothing remarkable about him. In fact, he possessed exactly the sort of round, bland face that was entirely forgettable except for a vague familiarity in his features. This nagged him. Had he met this man at an earlier date? His attention returned to Molly. A tear slipped down her face. Woodley and Davidson lingered at her back looking bored. Moriarty, however, was located outside his narrow purview. He had to assume the professor was deeper within the room.

With a brisk stride, Sherlock sided up to John again. He pulled his gun from its holster and cocked it slowly. His brows raised when John produced a second revolver for his other hand. John shrugged. Sherlock suppressed a laugh and relayed the positions of the people in the room.

"Train your guns on the goons behind Molly. Shoot only if necessary. If we want to escape this alive, we need to avoid gunfire and drawing anyone in from outside who might investigate such noise."

John nodded. "Will do. Shall we?"

Sherlock stepped up to the door, stretched his neck, and then raised his foot and booted the door open with as much force as he could muster. It loudly cracked and splintered off its frame and then fell forward on top of Tom Woodley who became pinned underneath it. Sherlock took the opportunity to grind a foot down on the center of the door to hold the flailing, cursing Woodley down while he leveled his gun at the ringleader of the group. John followed as if he were his shadow. He trained his firearms on Davidson. Someone moved in the corner and John snapped a wrist in his direction. Professor Moriarty halfheartedly stuck his hands up and smiled.

Sherlock's gaze flicked to Molly standing with slim shoulders squared in the center of the small, unkempt office.

"Molly," Sherlock breathed.

Tendrils of hair that had escaped her up-do stuck to her face. Her glossy eyes shot to his and he felt something split within him like a great glacier fracturing apart when they softened and her lip trembled. He gulped a lump and frantically gestured for her to come to him. His blood coursed through his veins like they were filled with liquid fire. He felt as if he were watching her leap from one precipice to the next and that if he took his eyes off her for even a microsecond, he might lose her to the chasm between them. Then, she scooted around his body and he felt her hands and forehead rest against his back. A shuddering sigh left his form when her skirts swished into his legs. His shoulders relaxed for the first time in what had felt like an eternity. Still, his stomach churned. They were not out of danger by any stretch of the imagination. He glowered at the man who had instilled such terror in her eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" The man spit.

Sherlock blinked and took better stock of his opponent. It was hard to focus with Molly clutching at his shirt. He wanted nothing more than to embrace her and bury his face in her neck. He drew in a breath and refocused. There was a familiar inflection in his opponent's tone. He was English and specifically, from London. He was of a similar middle-age to Woodley with sandy hair faded to grey but his eyes were lively and a unique, honey brown he'd only ever seen on one other individual. Sherlock's lungs seized as he had a sudden realization.

"You . . . you are Molly's dead Uncle Milton," he said hoarsely, "though, actually not dead, it would appear."

Moriarty cackled and clapped his hands together in the far corner. He shook his hands at the ceiling.

"There it is!"

Sherlock glowered at the professor lingering next to a dusty bookcase but just for a fraction of a second.

"Molly's Uncle?" John repeated in a high tone. "What on Earth does he have to do with any of this?"

"Everything, John," Sherlock ground out, "everything."

Sherlock rolled his head around, cricking the bones in his neck. He felt as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He bumped Molly back to urge her towards safety. He wanted her to flee but she remained stubbornly at his back with a death grip on his shirt that strained the buttons at his front. Part of him was irrationally happy that she wanted to stay. Her determination gave him strength.

"You do not know what or who you are dealing with, or do you, Mr. Holmes?" Milton Hooper said with a growl of disgust, "Do you have any idea what is about to be unleashed on New Westminster? What will be unleashed on your brother and his family?"

Sherlock's eye twitched. He hated this man's face with his jowls and crooked contempt of a smile. How could someone so stout and ordinary cause so much grief?

"In fact I do."

Milton huffed and ran a hand over his sweaty brow. "Hmph, of course you do, right? Of course you can look around now and understand the peril but have you anticipated the real peril? New Westminster will be spared. We cannot go about overthrowing the western shores of a country by alienating its populace. This will be an orderly transition but there will be casualties because . . . well, there will be those who simply refuse to surrender. Right now, a few of my men are headed towards a home with such occupants in the Queen's Park area."

Sherlock did his best to maintain his composure as Molly gasped.

"Your Brother," she whispered raggedly.

Sherlock felt Molly step from behind him then. He swept an arm back and caught her before she could launch herself at her uncle. He struggled to keep his foot down on the door holding Woodley. His gun dipped.

"You loathsome toad," she cried, "you disgusting pig of a man! You would kill a newborn and his mother? You would be that cruel? For what?"

Sherlock wrenched her back but she struggled against him.

"A tale as old as time, Molly," he said with derision laced in his tone, "he is sick with greed, with gold fever."

"What?"

"Oh, he makes it sound so absurd," Milton hissed, "but we are talking about a once in a lifetime treasure, my dear, and you could have been among the richest women in the world! You could still yet be. Molly, do you know this man? Do you really? He is on the losing side. He has lost."

"Last I checked," John cleared his throat, "we had the draw on you!"

Milton sneered at John. "You will not shoot! Neither of you will shoot. If you do, three hundred men will descend upon you."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Milton was correct in that they were at a bit of a stalemate. He searched his mind for a way out. The scales had yet to tip. In fact, they were at a disadvantage. At any time, someone could come seeking their leader. The clock was their enemy in this regard.

Before he could muse further, he heard muffled shouts and then a waft of acrid smoke assaulted his nostrils. He looked over at John and saw that he too had noticed the smell. John edged to the small window of the office with his guns still trained on Davidson and Moriarty. He elbowed the curtain aside and Sherlock knew by John's incredulous expression that their predicament had just become exponentially more treacherous.

"Oh Christ, Sherlock!" His voice was hollow. "The feed is on fire. This whole place is going to go up. We need to get out of here . . . now!"


	35. Chapter 35

Previously :

 _"Oh Christ, Sherlock!" John's voice was hollow. "The feed is on fire. This whole place is going to go up. We need to get out of here . . . now!"_

* * *

"Fire? Fire!" Woodley's muffled cried from beneath the door holding him down.

Sherlock stomped down on the wooden slab. "Be quiet!"

Molly looked up at her Uncle as he slammed his hands down on the room's simple pine work desk. Blood pounded through her veins as her heart pumped wildly.

"No one is going anywhere!" Milton Hooper spit. "We are not done here yet. Now, hand over my niece, Mr. Holmes-"

Molly released her hold on Sherlock's shirt and stepped around him to face her Uncle. Her eyes flicked sideways for a tick. Professor Moriarty appeared antsy next to him. He kept stretching his neck and looking around. She huffed annoyance out through her nose. She was tired of the pair of them but for wholly different reasons.

"I am not some object to be wrestled over," she replied angrily, "and I most definitely do not want any more to do with you, Uncle."

Her Uncle Milton's lips turned down and he rolled his eyes. Moriarty appeared to suppress a smile.

"Oh, come now, you do not really believe I mean to hurt anyone, do you? I am not going to harm the lovely Mrs. Mycroft Holmes or her wee babe. We are simply going to arrest her husband and yours and anyone else who supports their criminal activities. They are scoundrels and oppressors. Your husband is a murderer, for God's sake! We are trying to save this province from these men. I have been trying to save you from him."

Molly's mouth dropped open.

"Save me?" Her voice sounded extremely high. "Save the province? Why, you certainly have become altruistic! Forgive me, but I only ever remember you having any use for myself or father when you needed money for one of your schemes."

Sherlock snorted. She glanced up at his handsome profile. He smirked.

Her Uncle's brows bunched together. "I do not expect you to completely understand. You have been under the influence of this rotten lot-"

Sherlock's smirk dropped off his face and he tilted his head down. His eyes narrowed.

"Shut your mouth," John warned, "no one believes your lies."

"Who is the liar, Dr. Watson?" Milton's cheeks jiggled with rage as his attention shifted again to Molly. "You all believe in him. You all believe that the Holmes are paragons of virtue but their souls are as black as the devil's. Sherlock Holmes has murdered who knows how many prostitutes. the lecherous fiend. That poor Gertie was just one of many, my dear Molly. He delights in seeing women suffer. Were you not warned about another woman who were declared insane and thrown in the gaol? What fate awaits you, I wonder?"

"Lies!" John bit out. "Sherlock!?"

"What, John? Am I to defend myself from this blithering nonsense?" Sherlock scoffed.

John blinked at him. "Yes, Sherlock, yes. He is maligning your character . . ."

Sherlock's lips twisted. "My dear john, are you not listening? He is digging himself a hole."

Her uncle swore at them but then started coughing. The room's atmosphere had become thick with smoke. For a moment he looked vulnerable and Molly found herself conflicted by the visage. She fell behind Sherlock again and closed her eyes as she rested her forehead on his warm back. His muscles flexed and relaxed as if her very touch soothed his tension. Several scenes from her childhood traipsed before her eyes while she mused. Her Uncle had not been all bad; she remembered his charm well, but she felt as if she were glimpsing the man she knew through a tainted lens. His declarations about her husband resounded between her ears. Something tweaked in the back of her mind. How did he know about Gertie or the woman at the prison or any of it unless he had a hand in it? How did he know unless Mary told him? It was all so confusing.

"Molly, y-you are like my daughter," he wheezed.

Her lips pulled tight. Though she had no definitive proof, she was convinced that her Uncle was the the person responsible for Gertie's death in some form or another. She would never believe Sherlock capable of such malevolence, not when there was a vibration in her Uncle's voice that rang so insincere.

 _Pop! Tinkle! Ffffffsssshh._

Molly's eyes flew open at what sounded like a lamp bursting. Sherlock tensed. She swallowed against the overwhelming lump of panic in her throat. They were in an awful fix. She peered over to where John checked on the progress of the fire through the small office window.

"Bloody hell, it is raging," he muttered and shook his head, "It has worked it's way up to the roof. W-We have to leave, Sherlock."

The words were just barely left John's lips when the youngest of the men who had been practically dancing off to the side, Davidson, panicked.

"The roof, did you say?" He tugged nervously at his waistcoat.

His eyes darted back and forth. His foot tapped nervously. Then, his stance squared and he glanced toward the void of the entrance missing its door. Smoke curled inside like snakes slithering in from the cold. With one last jitter, he cursed and was off.

John wagged the barrel of his gun at the lad. "Now, hold it right there-"

The young Davidson was deaf to John's warning. His eyes flashed, he scrambled towards the exit, tripped over the edge of the broken door and slammed into Sherlock and Molly.

"Ack!" Molly cried as she teetered back.

Davidson spun off her, picked up his feet and stumbled out of the room. Sherlock leapt towards Molly but in the process, stepped off the door holding Woodley down. She caught herself but before she could warn her husband, Woodley jumped onto Sherlock's back and chopped down at his arms. Sherlock grunted as he bore the weight. He attempted to secure his hold on his firearm but fumbled it. The black pistol fell from his grasp and then bounced under the desk. Woodley flailed, clawed and pawed at Sherlock who tried vainly to throw his assailant off. Around they spun; elbows and fists flew. At one point, Sherlock worked his hand free, shoved Molly away and demanded she flee. She gritted her teeth and shook her head. She had just been reunited with her husband, she would rather die than leave him in that moment. Her eyes darted around at all the men and their ever-worsening situation. Her stomach hollowed out as if an anchor had fallen right through it when she saw the others racing to extract their weapons. Fear squeezed her chest until her lungs burned. Her Uncle pulled a revolver from a drawer while Professor Moriarty extracted a small pistol from his pocket.

"Hold it! Hold it! Stop right there!" John's pitchy tone betrayed his panic.

However, John's threat was as ineffectual as his voice. Sherlock and Woodley tussled directly in his line of fire. Molly knew John would not shoot, not if it meant he might hit his best friend. Her Uncle decided to call his bluff. An eruption of threats and counter threats filled the small room. The men's voices rose until someone barked a final warning fired a shot. Everyone momentarily froze in place. Dust rained down from where the bullet hand punched through the ceiling. For a few seconds, the spectators gaped at John's smoking gun. Sherlock took the opportunity to heave Woodley off his back. His bulk crashed into the desk which bashed into her Uncle. The cascade effect caused Moriarty to stumble back.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, "let's go!"

Sherlock's determined gaze fell on his wife. He barreled into Molly and scooped her off her feet.

"Whoop!" She shrieked as she found herself atop his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

He ran from the office and pivoted right. From her vantage as she was bounced out of the room, Molly gaped at an inferno at the end of the warehouse. Flames shot up from the center of the beastly apparition in a frenzy of white-yellow spires tipped with orange. The mass of it rolled and writhed like a dragon unfurling between the stalls. Between the warehouse supports, smoke billowed and curled up towards the ceiling and its open vents. Flashes and sparkles erupted in the midst of the haze like fireworks. As if reading her mind, the fire pulsed and seemed to chase them from the building. It clawed over the tops of the feed stalls filled with tinder-dry bails of hay and piles of loose grain. She raised a hand to her face. The radiant heat was so intense she though her flesh might blister. Air rushed past her head and whipped her hair towards the blaze. Like a great, greedy glutton, the fire voraciously inhaled from the open bay doors that Davidson threw wide on his cowardly flight to safety.

"This is bad," John ran behind them, his face was as colourless as blanched almonds, "this is very bad!"

"Christ, John!" Sherlock called back. "Is there such a thing as a good situation that involves an out of control fire in storehouse packed to the rafters?"

John's nose wrinkled. "Well, n-no-"

Behind John came a great crash as the ceiling caved in and flaming timbers rained down. His shoulders jumped and he glanced back with wide eyes. Molly had never seen anything like the ferocity of the conflagration. She didn't know a fire could burn so big and hot and so very, very fast. She clutched her husband's shoulders. Sherlock ran straight out of the doors and then swung her down on the boardwalk. He doubled over, panting. Panicked men ran this way and that but paid them no attention.

"The moorings! Cut the moorings!" A fellow screamed as he flew by. "Loose the ships!"

Molly's back was to the fire right then but she could see the light of it dancing in both Sherlock and John's rounded orbs. John's brows shot towards his hairline as he appeared to notice something.

"Oh, Christ!" John exclaimed, jabbing a finger past Molly, "That is fuel oil!"

Molly spun to see the that the fire had collapsed part of the building and one of the walls had fallen out towards the river where the wooden freighters were lashed to the dock. Her eyes located a substantial timber that had cracked open a tank. The vessel sputtered liquid that fed a spreading, dripping pool of ugly orange flames across the boards of the wharves. Sooty, black smoke funneled off the ends of the sickly, rich flames. A man tried to get closer to one of the large ropes securing the ship but fire licked up the line. He threw up his hands as strange sounds issued from the tank and the liquid began to jet out and burn brighter.

"To the street!" Sherlock grabbed Molly's wrist. "It is going to erupt!"

Molly grabbed a bunch of her skirts did her best to keep up with the two men as they fled but her heavy dress hindered her movements. When she tripped, Sherlock's arm wrapped around her waist. He practically dragged her between the buildings and up an incline. At their backs, a great 'oomp' followed by screams could be heard. The shadows around them momentarily deepened. When they were far enough up the dusty bank towards Front Street, she glanced back over the collapsed warehouse to see that the river was on fire.

Inside her mind, she was a blubbering mess. The Fraser River was on fire. Fuel burned across its surface and between the ships. The wooden freighter closest to the blast looked as if it had been doused and set ablaze across its jutting bow. It drifted sideways and bumped into another ship, disseminating its flames like a disease. Black figures could be seen jumping into the water. She watched in horror as one wailing man entirely engulfed plummeted off the ship and disappeared beneath the burning pool. Molly averted her gaze and swallowed a rise of bile. She had never witnessed such horror. Sherlock urged her along, whispering in soothing tones. At the top of the gentle slope, they paused again.

"John," Sherlock rasped as he slapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, "you are the best rider I know. Go, let Redbeard loose when you reach the horses. He will find me. Then, find my brother. Protect my family. W-Will you do this for me?"

John's brow set in determination and he nodded. "Do you want me to take Molly?"

Sherlock's fingers tightened on her waist and he pulled her closer to him. "No. You will ride faster without a passenger. I will protect Molly."

John brushed a hand over his hair and turned to gaze upon the fire one last time.

"Christ, I do not suppose anyone needs to sound the alarm," he gazed wondrously at the carnage.

As if on cue, the insistent bells of New Westminster's fire station clanged. Church bells across the city echoed the alert. John turned to go but Sherlock called out.

"John," his voice vibrated, "get . . . get my family out of the city. If you can, send a message to Mrs. Hudson as well. Tell everyone and anyone you meet to go Northwest and keep going. This fire . . ."

The profile of Sherlock's stark, fearful expression was a vision Molly would never forget. His lips quivered as he spoke.

"This fire is going to spread."

Molly felt the sting of misery in her eyes as she understood exactly what he meant. New Westminster was city built from the spoils of the surrounding forest. Most of its buildings were wood structures packed close together along Columbia and Front street. It was a recipe for disaster that had devastated London just over two hundred years previous and more recently, Boston and Chicago. Sherlock was right. The fire was already moving along the docks across the tops of the other warehouses. The city was in great peril.

John nodded and swallowed. He skipped back reluctantly and then spun to leave. Molly watched his back as he went and said a little prayer for his safe journey. Suddenly, she was the focus of Sherlock's attention. In an instant, she was in his arms and crushed up against him. He buried his face in her hair which had come almost completely loose from its confines. She anchored herself around his shaking torso. Tears erupted from her eyes and slipped down her face.

"Molly," he said huskily, his voice rattled. "My, God, Molly."

In he next breath, his mouth came up and covered hers with a fierce longing. The world fell away. There was no surface beneath her feet nor sky above her head. It was only his lips imprinting themselves in all their needy glory on her own. She dug her fingers into his sides, frantic to convince herself he was real and they were together. She almost sobbed against his mouth. It all felt so tremulous, as if any moment, they could be ripped apart again. Then, her worst fears were confirmed when they were interrupted by a sharp click of a something metallic and a low, sardonic laughter.

"Aw, now is not this precious?" Woodley sneered.

"Not at all," her Uncle added in a gravelly timber.

Sherlock tore his lips away then corralled Molly back with his arm on the dusty street. Unfortunately, they were out in the open facing a trio of armed men with the night almost turned to daylight by the climbing flames. Her Uncle squared off next to Woodley with Professor Moriarty lingering at their backs. Shadows shifted on each of their faces and their expressions seemed to change with every flicker of the light. Alternately, they appeared to sneer and laugh like the masks of tragedy and comedy. However, the professor acted the least interested in intimidating anyone with his firearm. In fact, he scratched his temple with it in apparent boredom and dithered as if he had something better to do. Still, it was an even more dangerous situation than that in the warehouse given both her Uncle and Woodley had the drop on them.

"You should be running away like your cowardly young apprentice," Sherlock's voice was full of menace.

"Nah, I have business with you yet," her Uncle replied.

Molly wanted to launch herself at him and his loyal troll with fists flying, or if she could choose, one of Mrs. Hudson's heavy cast iron skillets. His bitter grimace made her stomach turn. As for the professor, he was merely a source of annoyance. She would feel much better if she could slap his leering face into unconsciousness.

"Whatever it is you were going to do here," Molly cried, "it is over! Over! Your invasion has been thwarted."

Her uncle shook his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sweat dripped down his temple. He struggled for air like he was out of breath.

"No, no . . . it is merely a setback. Now, I am willing . . . to . . . spare . . . you, niece, if you just co-operate."

"Never-"

In the next instant, Sherlock stepped in front of Molly and blocked her view with his large chest. He shook her once by the arms. His eyes were wide and luminous. The fire bathed his pale face in a golden glow. His expression was miserably resigned.

"There is no play here, my love," he rasped, "go with them."

Molly shook her head. Her stomach turned over.

"N-No! Th-They are going to kill you."

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes, but not you, darling. You are untouchable. I made sure of this earlier-"

"What?!" Her Uncle screamed. "What did you do?"

Sherlock turned back towards the men. Molly clutched at his hand. Their fingers intertwined. When she shifted on her feet, she felt the tug of something weighing down her pocket and remembered that Mary had slipped her a gun. She reached tentatively into her pocket and shakily grasped the handle. Her mind spun. It was a small measure of defense, but not enough; just one measly bullet against three loaded pistols.

"What did I do?" Sherlock repeated her Uncle's question. "I did what any good husband would do, I ensured my wife would not be left vulnerable to schemers and cheats in the event I died prematurely. I drew up a new will this very afternoon with my solicitors, in fact. My estate will not just pass to Molly carte blanche upon my death. I wrote it up as a trust to be administered by my parents, Lord and Lady Holmes, to which Molly is the beneficiary. You see, I am the jealous sort and quite spiteful as it turns out. I instructed that if she is to remarry within two years to anyone my parents deem unworthy, she forfeits her claim to the estate and it then reverts fully to my parents in London. There is a similar provision if she dies."

Molly peered up at Sherlock. "Wh- I do not understand. How does this protect me?"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed on Woodley whose face had gone nearly purple.

"It means the massive gold claim your Uncle unwittingly left you when he faked his death cannot be immediately transferred into another husband's title. Under the law in Canada, when we married I automatically became the owner of his bequeathment. That is why they wanted you, Molly. Whomever you marry takes control of your fortune."

Her eyes nearly popped out of her skull. She could not believe what she heard.

"Oh, my lord!"

"Aaarg! I will kill you! I will kill you both for this," her Uncle sputtered.

"No!" Sherlock countered with an emphatic point. "No, you will not because there is a loophole. I allowed for my parents to sell the claim for a single dollar to whomever delivers Molly to them alive and unharmed."

Her Uncle Milton paced and then spit. He shook his head. His nostrils flared.

"That will never work," he screamed as he violently shook his gun, "never! She will have me arrested. You treacherous snake! You cannot con a con. To hell with you both."

Time seemed to slow down in that moment. Molly watched her Uncle raise his gun and point it towards Sherlock. Her heart seized as he pulled the trigger and the hammer fell with a clunk. The requisite bang failed to sound, though. The gun did not fire. He cursed loudly, began fiddling with it and demanded for his companions to shoot. Woodley reluctantly eyeballed Molly. She could see that he was still contemplating Sherlock's loophole. The professor's focus narrowed. He raised his pistol. As if possessed by someone else's calm spirit, Molly bumped Sherlock out of the way with her hip, pulled Mary's gun from her pocket and levelled it at the men. Her finger slipped over the trigger and increased pressure on it until she just felt it compress. For a split second, her mind was a jumble and she wasn't sure of her next move. She just knew she had to do something.

 _"Don't waste it on the professor,"_ Mary's voice echoed in her head.

Molly pivoted her aim and pulled the trigger. The recoil and resounding eruption from the barrel came as a bit of a shock as it jolted her wrist and shoulder. For a brief interlude, her ears rang. Every sound was distant and muffled. Then, she looked past the end of the gun's muzzle to where her Uncle gripped his chest. He gaped down at his hand. Blood seeped between his fingers. Temporarily, he teetered in disbelief. Then, his eyes rolled back in his head, his knees buckled and he slunk to the ground. Woodley cried out and turned his gun on her.

"Villainous whore! You've killed him!"

Molly inhaled a sharp breath. She knew her anatomy. The bullet had most likely ripped clean through her Uncle's heart.

"Tsk, I would not do that if I were you," Moriarty poked the snout of his pistol against Woodley's temple. "I am rather fond of Mrs. Holmes. Now more than ever."

The professor prodded his head again when Woodley hesitated. "Come on. Do not tempt me to laziness. I have interests to protect which require my prompt attention. It would be much easier to tend to them if I decided to shoot you dead on the spot instead of taking you with me. So, hand it over. Final warning."

"What?! What is this?" Woodley demanded, thrusting the gun into Moriarty's hand.

The professor chuckled and winked at Molly. "This is you realizing you have made a grievous miscalculation."

Molly lowered Mary's pistol with a trembling hand. She did not know if her heart would ever recover from the gamble she had just taken as it rioted in her chest. She was sure it was fractured. She stared at her Uncle's slumped form rather impassively for several seconds, not positive of how she should feel. Then, relief flooded through her system and she turned to Sherlock. When she gazed up at him, he blinked rapidly and she could see his thoughts swirling in the depths of his beautiful eyes. His mouth opened to speak but then he gave his head a shake. Finally, the events caught up to her consciousness. She dropped the gun and was overcome. She hiccupped and her shoulders quaked with sobs. Sherlock gathered her up to his chest.

"It is alright, my Love," he whispered, "you did the exactly the right thing."

Tears streamed down Molly's face and dampened his shirt. "I-I do not know-"

"Mm, well, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes," Moriarty clucked and tapped the side of Woodley's head again, "would you mind very much if I absconded with my prize? I have . . . a burning need to depart these wharves."

The professor smiled at his own morbid joke and wagged his brows at Woodley. Woodley lifted his chin with a grim set to his lips. Molly felt Sherlock's arms tighten as he hugged her closer.

"What do you want with him?" He muttered.

"Ah, mm, he is rich with the only currency that really matters, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty replied lyrically, "information."

Molly could feel Sherlock straighten. "Yes, well, I also need to ask him a few things."

Moriarty's lips pursed sideways. His nose wrinkled.

"Erm, hummm, that's all well and good, but what are you going to do? Take him from me? I like Mrs. Holmes," he shrugged, "but you . . . enh, not so much. So, seeing as I have a pair of fully loaded guns and your wife just spent the only bullet in Mary's pistol, there is not much of an argument to be had here, mm? I wiii-in by default!"

Molly raised her head and frowned. "How did you know-"

The professor wiggled in place and tapped his feet. "What? That you had a gun? Oh, well, I am rather an expert at deducing the nature of stiff apparati in people's pockets, my sweet. Thanks again for the ride you took upon my mount, by the way. I learned so very much about you."

Molly dug her feet into the road as she felt Sherlock puff up and start towards his tormentor. She pushed back against him.

"Just let him go," she whispered.

Moriarty wagged his brows one final time and urged Woodley away. At that moment, Redbeard trotted anxiously past the pair and snorted. Molly watched the professor move away for several yards before Sherlock called gruffly after him and his captive.

"I never bought the whole professor act, Dr. Moriarty."

"What? It was not an act," Moriarty sang over his shoulder and waved his free hand in a flourish towards the sky, "I very much like to school people. Good Evening, Mr. Holmes. Until we meet again."

He turned and trotted backwards for a tick, a smile lit his face. "Oh, and you are welcome for this but remember . . . You. Owe. Me!"


	36. Chapter 36

Molly squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back into Sherlock's embrace. Beneath them, Redbeard continued his skittish climb up Eighth street. Every so often, he threw his head back and snorted. She did not blame the poor creature but his agitated jostling further frayed her already shredded nerves. Her lip quivered and she gulped back panic. In some respects, she wanted Sherlock to snap the reins so that Redbeard would race from the waterfront as quickly as possible. She kept imagining her Uncle rising from the street and coming after them with scorching flames in his wake.

However, she knew this was impossible. Her shot had ripped through his heart. Sherlock had checked his lifeless form and confirmed his passing. Even so, the idea of her Uncle lying there, discarded, made her stomach turn. He was her father's younger brother, after all. She could not understand how his moral compass had caused him to deviate so far off course. Was it something innate in him that had driven him to murderous extremes or had he just spent too much time inside his own mind and in his wanderings and reached the edge of a gaping void that drove him to madness? Her shoulders shook with a shuddering inhalation. Again, she was on the edge of tears. If not for Sherlock's arm anchored around her waist and his solid chest at her back, she was certain her soul would fracture.

 _Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!_

Molly's eyes flew open. Never had the tolling of the bells sounded so ominous. She wondered if she would be able to associate them with a call to prayer again. They had not stopped ringing since the fire started and they would not soon finish. Sherlock's dire warnings had been correct. At their backs, the flames that had started at the feed warehouse quickly engulfed the adjacent warehouse before they jumped to the dry docks and the canneries. In less than a half hour, the entire length of the city's waterfront was roaring with flames that licked up into the sky as if trying to reach the moon. The beast's claws, stymied by the river, had since turned and clawed their way up the hills further into the city.

 _Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!_

Molly grimaced. In addition to the cacophony of the bells, people had exited their homes and were rushing around in a panic. Shouts and cries of fear and anxiousness filled the air.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried as a man clutching a hoard of books stepped off the adjacent boardwalk and skittered in front of them.

Sherlock yanked at Redbeard's reins and cursed as the horse danced on the spot.

"Bloody fool!" He called.

The oblivious man rushed across the street like a fleeing ghost. He tripped as he stepped up on the opposite walkway and spilled his books across the boardwalk. As he scrambled to retrieve his treasures, another pair of men ran across the road toting a piece of furniture. A woman toting a baby followed, crying out for someone.

"Daniel?"

She stopped and spun around. She appeared disheveled as if she had just hopped out of bed.

"Daniel?!"

Molly sat forward and glanced around. There was movement in every nook and cranny between the buildings. The city's inhabitants were crawling all over the city like ants escaping a flood.

"Will the fire department be able to help at all, Sherlock?" Molly craned her head to view his profile. "Do they have any hope of saving the city?"

He sucked in a breath at her back. His arm tightened momentarily.

"The downtown district will most assuredly be lost."

"A-And Ash Street? Your home?"

Sherlock's head angled down. She saw his brows pull together in the darkness.

"Our home, Molly Holmes," he murmured, "though, I am not overly concerned with its fate, at present. There is nothing there that cannot be replaced. I have everything I need with me in this very moment."

Molly swallowed. Then, she twisted around, slipped a hand around his neck and stretched upwards as much as her body would allow. He dropped his chin. Light glinted off the orbs of his eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes," she whispered as she gazed at his stoic face, "before anything else happens, before anyone else conspires to come between us, I want you to know . . . t-to know that . . . I love you. I love you. I lov-"

Before she could complete her declaration for the third time, Sherlock bent over and kissed her as if he was capturing her words. It was arguably the most uncomfortable kiss in the way her body strained but as he moved his lips over hers, and she felt the pull of him as if he were drawing her into himself, she didn't want it to end. It was the most peculiar time to think it, but she wished to be under him. She needed to belong to him again. When he lifted his head, he kissed her forehead and temple. Then he clutched her back against him and buried his nose in her hair. Her heart soared.

A blissful moment passed, but then it stretched into silence.

Molly didn't know what she expected, but Sherlock did not return her sentiment. She swallowed against a rising lump in her throat. Her stomach dropped when it became apparent he was not going to speak again. She tried to tell herself that it was fine, that she was fine, but she knew she was not. One minute dragged into the next as Redbeard picked his way up the hill. Why would he not say he loved her, unless . . . he did not actually love her? The sentiment he had displayed that night, she wondered, was it all just symptomatic of the tumult they had all been through?

They rode on, with her thoughts swirling into despair, until the sights and the sounds of people struggling to escape the approaching fire became too much for Molly.

"Stop," she said suddenly.

"Stop?" he repeated sharply. "Why?"

Molly sniffed back her misery. "Because I want to stay and help these people. I need to help them."

"Molly, you have just been through hell-"

"No," she flicked away a tear, "I am still in the midst of it. Please, Sherlock, I need this . . . I need to do something."

 _"I need to be of use to someone,"_ she thought.

* * *

 _Crack! Fiiiiiifffft._

"Holy hell!" John hit the ground at the sound of gun fire, a habit developed from previous years of fighting as a soldier in Africa.

He swatted at his head. He had felt the whiz of a bullet pass by his ear. He heard another loud bang from the direction of Mycroft's home and in almost the same instant, a whack against the nearby bricks followed the sharp spray of clay fragments in his face. He heard the shooter work the bolt mechanism on their rifle and took the opportunity to roll away to escape the next bullet. Additional shots then sent him scrambling into the hedges. He muttered a silent prayer that he had left his mount tied up outside the gates and ventured into Mycroft's yard by foot. Otherwise he would have been a much easier target. The shots continued for another minute, three or four more in total, then stopped. He sucked in a few breaths.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," he panted as he came to terms with his narrow escape.

Cold washed over him. Was he too late to save Mycroft, Anthea and their newborn? For several seconds, he fought the acute unsettling of his innards. In the distance, the city seemed to swell. Bells rung out urgently from the church spires.

"I suggest you flee, assassin," an angry female voice called, her voice had a faint echo, "flee or meet the fate of your compatriots!"

John stilled. He glanced around again from his belly. Across the ground in the gloom, he made out the shape of several humps of dark forms on the lawn and in the gardens. Bodies! He shook his head as he realized he recognized the sound of the woman's voice.

"M-Mrs. Holmes?" he shouted.

There was a brief silence.

"Who is there? Who is it?" She finally responded.

"I-It's John Watson, Dr. John Watson!"

"John!" Mary's voice filtered down to him as well.

He heard muffled cursing.

"For pity's sake, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Holmes reprimanded him, "I nearly took off your head! Get up here this instant!"

John heaved up from his hiding place and brushed himself off as he hurried towards their front door. He glanced up at the upper floor of their grand home. Every window was dark, in fact, not a single light illuminated anything within the dwelling. At the far end of the balcony, he spied a bit of movement and just caught a glimpse of the barrel retract into the shadows.

The front door swung open and John hustled to the interior, ushered in by Mycroft. The taller man peered outside and scanned his yard.

"Dr. Watson," he rubbed his hand over his heart, "where is my brother?"

"He and Molly are just behind me, I imagine," John replied breathlessly, "unless they decide to visit Ash Street first. He sent me to warn you."

Mycroft shut the door and reached for a nearby lantern. With a quick flick of a ready match, the lamp's flame sputtered to life. Its glow cast long shadows in every direction. Mycroft's pensive face appeared particularly grave in the wavering yellow light.

"Warn us? Is the invasion quite large then? How many do you think?'

John shook his head.

"I doubt very much that the invasion is going ahead, Magistrate," he replied anxiously, "the bells you hear . . . they toll for the fire."

"Fire?"

Above them, came Mrs. Holmes' solemn voice.

"Yes, a fire, my love. A rather large one along the waterfront. I can see the tips of the flames over the trees."

She descended the sweeping staircase outfitted in breeches until she sidled up next to Mycroft. A rifle with a long scope like the type John had seen used as a sniper in his service days, was slung over her shoulder. He blinked several times. How did he not know Mrs. Holmes was a marksman?

"I am surprised you missed me with such a weapon, Mrs. Holmes," he murmured.

She smirked. "Who says I missed?"

Mary descended hesitantly behind Mrs. Holmes. John's heart squeezed as he shifted his eyes upwards. She was as radiant as ever in her simple, green plaid patterned dress. She looked much improved from earlier in the evening but he was reminded of her betrayal in the anxious roundness of her eyes. Her lips pulled into a tight line. Of course, he had been aware far longer than anyone that she was involved in the plot against New Westminster but that did not mean he had wrapped his head around it. He had difficulty believing that his kind and caring Nurse Mary Morstan was an American agent. Again, he felt a pang in his chest.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat and glanced to Mycroft, anxious to escape her anxious blue eyes, "why did you remain here knowing what was coming?"

Mycroft sighed and looked to Mrs. Holmes. "Anthea insisted on defending our home."

Mrs. Holmes turned a surprised scowl to her husband, harrumphed and tapped her stock on the marble floor. "Our home? You think I care a whit for this house? I did not stay behind to defend its shell, you bloody cock."

Mycroft tucked in his lips. Mrs. Holmes shook her head before addressing John again.

"We have one of the few homes with a telephone, Dr. Watson. Mycroft has been making calls to Washington and California. I was not about to leave my husband unguarded."

John nodded. "Yes, well, an admirable effort, Mrs. Holmes but it may be for naught if that fire is not contained."

Mrs. Holmes frowned and glanced to her husband for reassurance just as his lantern flickered. Fear cracked like lightning across her face.

"Surely they will be able to stop the fire? I-It cannot possibly make it up here, can it?" She whispered.

A crease formed between Mycroft's brows. He closed his eyes momentarily. John watched them move back and forth beneath his lids. After a few seconds, the haggard man stretched his neck and breathed deeply. His eyes blinked open.

"My darling, it is time to leave," Mycroft murmured. "I want you to take Firefly and catch up to the Gunns."

"But-"

Mycroft handed his lantern to Mary and grasped his wife's upper arms. His hands shakily moved to her face. John gawped at them briefly as Mycroft tenderly kissed his wife. The doctor then quickly shifted his focus back to Mary who scooted past the pair and joined John as he moved away.

"Sherrinford needs you, my darling," Mycroft sounded as if he bore the world's burdens, "go with them to the Marsdens' in Vancouver. You will be safe there."

"Our son needs you too," Mrs. Holmes' whisper drifted across the great entry, "I-I need you."

Mycroft sucked in air as if someone had lanced him. "Yes, my love, but New Westminster is in its greatest hour of need. I will not abandon my city nor its people. So, as much as I would prefer to go with you, you know my conscience will not allow me to do so."

Mrs. Holmes sobbed and John knew, even as his back was turned, that the husband and wife embraced. His hand fumbled sideways and he intertwined his shaking fingers with Mary's. When he looked at her, her eyes glistened. For a moment, she seemed stunned but then squeezed his hand back. Her shoulders slumped in relief. She mouthed the words, 'I love you' as a tear rolled down her cheek.

John realized in that moment that he may not know Mary Morstan very well, but he knew _this_ woman. So, he quickly returned the unspoken declaration.

 _"I love you too,"_ he mouthed, _"I love you too."_


	37. Chapter 37

_True History! The great New Westminster fire of 1898 devastated the city. Though the city's fire department (with assistance from the Vancouver fire department) fought valiantly, a large swath of the city was left in ashes. A valve on the city's main fire suppression piping was mistakenly left closed sometime previously in the year. This meant there was insufficient water pressure to contain the blaze at the docks where it originated. Despite efforts, the fire spread up the hill through the downtown core and continued its destruction until it reached Royal Avenue. This extra-wide street acted as a fire-break which miraculously prevented the raze of the rest of the city._

 _Still, by the time the sun rose the next morning, over one-third of New Westminster was lost to fire including all the businesses downtown, the courthouse, the public library, Chinatown and more. The fire forever altered the course of New Westminster's history. Most of the long-time Asian immigrants left the city and rebuilt their community in Vancouver. New Westminster saw an overall decline in population from other people who did not choose to rebuild in addition to the loss of businesses and influence to the burgeoning port of Vancouver. Today, it is one of the smaller cities in the region with a modest footprint and one-tenth the population of Vancouver._

 _The views in these pictures are of Columbia street in the days following the fire. The residents were a plucky lot. The next day, Reichenbach Butcher's set up a temporary shop in the form of a tent outside their incinerated building._

 _Miraculously, no one died in the great fire save for an older ethnic-Chinese merchant who succumbed to a heart attack._

* * *

 _"I love you . . ."_

Sherlock watched Molly's opaque form walk towards him out of the soupy white fog, but it was not fog. He coughed a few times. His lungs prickled and his throat burned. Smoke rose from the doused embers all around them. A delicate, petal-like flake, the remnants of burnt paper, drifted by his face. When he tried to bat it away, it disintegrated through his fingers and he tasted the acrid bitterness of its ash.

Molly flicked a tendril of hair back and grabbed her skirts to lift them as she stepped over a boot lying in the street. Suddenly, the hulking form of her Uncle Milton appeared behind her leering like a demon from the pits of hell. He wrapped a meaty arm around her waist. Sherlock's heart seized as she screamed and kicked her legs out. For a second, he was paralyzed. Then, he reached for her but the ground shifted and disappeared beneath his feet. He fell through burning timbers and fire until he was flung head-long into a pool of flames.

 _"I love you . . ."_

He couldn't breathe. There was only blackness. Molly cried it out again as if she was they were her last words.

 _"I love you . . ."_

"Huh!"

Sherlock awoke with a start. He flailed a moment before he caught his balance and realized he had drifted off after sitting down on a barrel. He sat up and snapped his head so quickly looking for his wife that a pang shot up his neck. He squinted at the harsh whiteness of the daylight before his eyes adjusted.

That is when he saw Molly walking towards him along the grassy bank just off Royal Avenue with her arm around the shoulders of a smaller form. He blinked a few times and realized she consoled none other than Mrs. Chan, his long-time supplier of exotic dried goods and scourge of Redbeard's diet. The older Chinese woman's crimson sheath dress was dusty, her face pale. She looked like a ghost of herself, but then, so did many of the residents struggling with the aftermath of the fire.

"Mrs. Chan," Sherlock nodded as he stood.

"M-Mr. Holmes," she dipped her head and held out a palm, "Mr. Holmes, may I say, it has been a privilege to know you."

Sherlock took the old woman's hand and stuttered his gratitude. The haggard woman smiled wanly and scrutinized him as if she gazing upon a portrait in a gallery. Then, like that, she was away. Molly helped her into a waiting cart and it trundled down the street past piles of furniture and people. He watched the cart and the solitary figure in its bed retreat until it was obfuscated by the lingering haze of New Westminster's ruination.

He turned to Molly. A frown tightened his features. For a few seconds, he was at a loss for words. His lips formed questions that refused to leave his lips. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Wh-Why do I feel as if that might be the last time I see Mrs. Chan?" He asked, his voice rough with emotion.

The sadness in Molly's eyes struck him like a lashing. Instantly, his stomach turned to lead.

"She lost everything, Sherlock, everything. She and her husband fought for hours to save their shop but . . . h-he fell," Molly slapped a hand to her collar and hiccupped a sob, "h-he s-s-suffered a fit of some sort and d-died. She goes to her cousin in Vancouver."

Sherlock reeled back but Molly's misery kept his feet grounded. He reached for her and drew her to his chest. She sniffled and leaned on him. She felt so small in his arms, so fragile. Yet, she had worked tirelessly alongside him assisting displaced residents all night like a miniature draft horse. From helping to corral the chaos of the initial evacuation to the comforting of families who watched their homes burn, Molly had been there like an angel of mercy. His angel. He could not be more proud to stand by her side. He listened her draw in a quivering breath.

"I-I hope you do not mind but I indebted us to Joseph Carlisle for the cost of her transport."

He shook his head and hugged her tightly. "Of course not. Thank-you. Thank-you for making that arrangement."

Sherlock clutched at Molly as she slumped in his arms. Mrs. Chan's tragedy was momentarily forgotten.

"Molly?"

She held fast to his torso. "Oh, oh, I-I am sorry."

He wagged his head and scooped her up into his arms even as she weakly protested. "You are exhausted, my darling. It is time for a rest."

"No!" she wriggled feebly in his arms. "No, there is still so much to do-"

Sherlock carried her to where Redbeard nibbled at some long grass around the base of a power pole. "Trust me, this mess is not disappearing any time soon. I am taking you home."

Molly blubbered something unintelligible and burst into tears. Her misery was so palpable that Sherlock felt his own eyes sting. He sucked in a breath and murmured a few soothing platitudes as much for himself as for his devastated wife.

"I do not want to go home," she cried.

"Wh-? Why?"

She wiped her eyes as she leaned her head wearily on his chest. "It does not f-feel right."

He kissed her forehead. He was not at all surprised by her reticence.

"My dear wife, you are in no way responsible for this disaster nor should you feel any guilt for still having a home in which to return. It is a happy thing, for us and for all our neighbors. Rejoice for them, if not for us."

Sherlock felt Molly stiffen in his arms inexplicably. He looked down at her just as her eyes flitted to her hand on his chest. She curled her fingers and retracted them. He frowned, the strain of it bunched the skin between his eyes. What was he missing? How could he cradle his wife yet there existed such a desolate gulf between them? He gave his head a shake. He must be imagining things. Molly loved him. She had said as much the previous evening. It had to be be the exhaustion driving her within herself.

"Yes, that is what ails Molly. She just needs to go home."

He ignored the sounds of bells tolling deeper within.

* * *

 _Two days later . . ._

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes! Sit down!"

Sherlock blinked lazily at Chief Lestrade, retracted his wrists and adjusted his cuffs. "Not here to arrest me then?"

Lestrade sighed and doffed his cap. He rolled his eyes and yanked at the hem of his dusty, dark blue uniform. One of the brass buttons near the throat had gone missing. Sherlock felt a pinch of guilt. Given the state of Lestrade's uniform, he doubted very much that the officer had even had a chance to return home to change.

"You know very well the warrant has been quashed."

Sherlock sauntered back to his chair near the hearth in Mycroft's study and plunked down. "Do I?"

"Magistrate, is he pulling my leg?" Lestrade directed his question to Mycroft seated behind his desk.

Mycroft raised his head. He slanted eyes sideways to his younger brother.

"Sherlock is aware the judge who signed his warrant has been arrested on bribery charges over the matter. So, yes, I would say he is amusing himself at your expense. Help yourself to some scotch if you like, Lestrade, and feel free to take a seat."

The corner of Lestrade's mouth tweaked up. He skipped to the hutch on the wall adjacent to Mycroft's desk, next to Sherlock, poured himself a generous helping of the caramel-hued spirit and plopped down opposite from the younger Holmes.

"What brings you here if not to arrest me then, officer?" Sherlock drawled.

Again, Lestrade looked over to Mycroft as if seeking permission to speak. Mycroft sighed and flicked up his fingers.

"I keep no confidences from my little brother," he muttered, "whether I would wish to or not. Please, make haste with your update."

Lestrade imbibed in another swig of scotch. He cleared his throat.

"Oy, well, we rounded up about two dozen of the invaders east of town and that looks to be the lot of the ones who made it ashore. Two of the ships sank. By my estimate, upwards of one-hundred and fifty men went down in the deepest part of the river. The tribe down the way has started collecting some of the ones who have washed ashore but I do not know how many will ever be recovered. One vessel managed to limp down river. They did make it out to the straight and down to Point Roberts so, unfortunately, they are already state-side and beyond our reach."

Mycroft nodded. He exhaled as if relieved.

Lestrade frowned. "Are you pleased about that, Magistrate? That they have escaped justice?"

The older Holmes laughed. "Oh, rest assured, Chief, they have hardly done that."

"Will they be arrested by the authorities there then?"

Mycroft smiled tightly. "You might say that."

Sherlock finally sat forward and steepled his fingers together under his nose.

"You mean to sweep this whole invasion under the rug," he murmured.

Mycroft's brows arched. His lips turned down.

"You disapprove?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all, it is exactly what I would advise."

Chief Lestrade sputtered through his next sip and coughed. "The pair of you are mad! Should not the whole world know about this? The bloody Americans tried to overthrow our western shore."

Sherlock wagged his head slowly again. "This plot does not appear to be sanctioned by the American federal government. Though, with Professor Moriarty's involvement, I do not know if we can ever be certain about that. Mycroft and I disagree about his role."

It was a complicated scenario. Even as Sherlock described the plot to Chief Lestrade, it hardly seemed plausible to his own ears. Anthea had been the first one to piece together the destabilization of the province's security. Then the question had become why? Why would anyone risk such an exercise?

The impetus had been gold fever. Milton Hooper had staked a massive claim in the interior of British Columbia, but he had gone bankrupt through various schemes and risked losing his claim to creditors. So, he had faked his death. Molly inherited his estate and that was why she had been lured from England. Milton's loyal partner Woodley was to become her husband so they could regain control of the claim.

However, they still required a massive investment to be able to extract the gold. That was where the very wealthy and connected Californian Governor William Davidson, the father of Woodley's young helper, came in. The Governor was interested in far more than riches, though. Per Mary, he lusted to forge his own place in history and expand the United States northward. Yet, he was not so bold as to carry out an outright attack. Milton Hooper offered an absolvable avenue to test the defenses of western Canada. Milton promised to facilitate the attack in exchange for support in starting up his mine.

Yet, a will and a way was not enough. The Californian contingent of plotters were prescient enough to know their occupation of British Columbia would take more than a staged assault on New Westminster. Sherlock figured they sought consultation and believed Professor Moriarty was the mind behind the destabilization of British Columbia. Likely, he was hired by Governor Davidson or one of his allies to come up with a design to make it happen. The rejected treaty talks, the abandoned police outposts, the plot to discredit Sherlock and by association Mycroft via a murder plot were all chess pieces in a game to set up a fall, the fall of a nation. This level of planning was the work of a brilliant strategist, in his opinion.

"I disagree about Moriarty's involvement, of course," Mycroft interjected as he leaned back and his chair squeaked in protest, "the Professor was the one who first informed me that Mary Morstan was an American operative. Mary confirmed that Moriarty had tried to wheedle information from her about why she was in New Westminster. I think he was working as an intelligence operative for our government and came here to disrupt the plot."

Sherlock snorted.

"Even if your conjecture is true, this does not make him friendly," he muttered, "and I would not be overly trustful of Ms. Morstan even though she has seemingly confessed all. I think it is very possible that there is another figure we are unaware of pulling some strings here who she might be afraid to reveal. Both Moriarty and Mary could have been employed independently to facilitate this plot. Moriarty might have contacted her in a ploy to suss out his competition."

Lestrade's lips had long since curved into an upside-down arc. His eyes were wide with an undisguised perplexed look. He looked down at his empty drink.

"Lordy, you were right about it being complicated."

Sherlock reached way over and grabbed the decanter full of scotch. He handed it to Lestrade who promptly poured himself another helping, then sat back and crossed his legs.

"Yes, and though Mycroft and I disagree about some points, neither of us think it is in anyone's interest to telegraph British Columbia's vulnerabilities and possibly panic the populace, especially after this fire. The last thing we need is the rest of the city emptying."

"Indeed," Mycroft murmured, he stretched his neck, "we do not know the level of commitment the Governor and his cronies have. Anthea has contacted her cousin Senator Franklin Dunn to inform him of the plot and he is gathering support to try to move against the Governor. In the meantime, I have appraised our Premier of the situation and requested additional federal resources in the form of troops under the guise we need help recovering from the fire. Hopefully, in a few weeks' time we will begin to patch up the holes in the province's defenses."

Chief Lestrade sighed. His glass hovered at his lips for a few seconds before he lowered it again without taking a sip. He shook his head. His eyes rounded as if stunned by a thought.

"Blimey, a third of my city burned down and I find myself grateful for it."

The three men in the study fell silent for a spell. Mycroft's mantel clock ticked like the incessant snapping of twigs. Sherlock's heart inexplicably beat faster during the interlude and his throat began to close. Suddenly, every sound was torture within his ears. Each sip Lestrade took from his tumbler dragged through his lips like the grinding of wooden wheels over gravel. Mycroft's shallow breaths rasped like paper rubbed together. Sherlock's limbs began to weigh down as if they were transforming to stone. He had thought it wouldn't be an issue if he ventured to his brother's home to discuss recent events, but he had been mistaken about how seriously he had been affected by everything. The last few days had been non-stop action which was his milieu. He could do anything in the grip of adrenaline, but quiet moments like this were his undoing. He felt one of his fits coming on as he relived his desperate race to save his wife, the stand-off inside the warehouse, the fire and the final confrontation with her Uncle. Would he never experience a moment's respite from fearing for her safety, he wondered? His next thought sent him into a spiral.

Sherlock had left Molly at Ash Street. How could he have done that? He attempted to talk himself down from the anxiety pushing him to the edge of a precipice but his fear became a deafening roar. Even though he had nothing to worry about with Wiggins watching things from the carriage house, visions of returning home to carnage consumed him. He tried to swallow but the lump refused to go down.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice sounded strangely distant.

Sherlock shakily uncrossed his legs, planted his feet and turned his numb face towards his brother. A flicker of recognition coloured Mycroft's expression. He lifted his chin and stared pointedly at Sherlock.

"Release that breath you hold, brother mine," he cajoled in a steady voice.

It took several more seconds but eventually, Sherlock became aware of how his lungs burned.

"Huuuh," the air expunged from his chest like a gush of water.

He gasped and panted until feeling return to his limbs. Lestrade's wide eyes regarded him with concern. Mycroft's lips set in a thin line. His face was flushed.

"F-Forgive me," Sherlock cleared his throat, "I think it is about time I take my leave."

Mycroft's head bobbed. "Yes, I am certain my dear sister-in-law is quite anxious without you."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft through unblinking eyes until his heart rate slowed. Mycroft had called Molly his sister-in-law without irony. It was enough to distract Sherlock from his crush of panic as he contemplated what that meant for their family. He pushed up from his seat and straightened his waistcoat before buttoning his blazer.

"Chief . . . Mycroft . . . if you will excuse me."

* * *

If Sherlock thought returning home would alleviate his affliction, he found he was mistaken the moment he crossed his threshold.

Molly's trunk occupied a spot ominously at the base of the stairs in the front foyer. He puzzled at its placement as he removed his coat and boots. While he contemplated the unexpected sight, his wife descended the stairs wearing one of her newer pin-striped day dresses and the hat he had bought. His eyes flicked to the trunk and then back up at her again. Illumination blinded him like a flash of lightning.

"Y-You are leaving me," he stuttered.

Molly dropped her chin just as she came to a stop next to her trunk. The feather on her hat quivered while she shakily donned a pair of gloves. As she stared down at her hands, her face drained of colour. He watched her throat move as she swallowed

"Yes, yes," she stammered, "I think this is b-best for both of us."

Sherlock's eyes twitched and his vision blurred. He shook the fog from his mind and raised his head as if a flood rose around him.

"Forgive me, but this does not make any sense. H-How is this in either of our interests?" His lids fluttered.

He unbuttoned his jacket and pulled the cravat at his throat. Once more, as he experienced at his brother's home, he labored to breathe. The fit he had had there began to make more sense. He must have been subconsciously aware that Molly had planned to do this. Maybe that is why he had felt the overwhelming compulsion to return home.

She raised her gaze. Her eyes were large and glistened with unshed tears.

"I cannot . . . I cannot live my life being a burden," she rasped. "That is all I have been from the moment I entered your world. I see it in your eyes every time you look at me. Now your burden has become mine. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see you unhappy-"

Sherlock advanced a few steps and paused to gather himself but his constitution was nothing more than a melting bowl of gelatin. He moved again but his legs gave out and he slumped to his knees in front of Molly. For several seconds he hung his head and gulped back his misery, his misery for having ever made her think of herself that way. Finally, he glanced up, shaking his head.

"You are not a burden. Oh, my dear heart, you are not a burden."

Her lips trembled. Sherlock reached out and took her hands. With a growl of frustration, he tugged each of the gloves from her hands and tossed them aside. Then he desperately kissed her fingers. His entire frame shook as if he had just stepped from the Fraser River sopping wet and freezing cold. He had to make her understand. He did not know what he would do without his Molly.

"I swear to you," he panted as he looked up at her imploringly, "I swear it on my life, the only burden you foist upon me is the fear of something or someone taking you from me."

Tears ran down Molly's cheeks. Her nose had begun to turn pink. She sniffled.

"Please," Sherlock begged, "please do not let that person be you. Do not take yourself away from me. I . . . I could n-not survive it."

Her eyebrows crinkled and she wagged her head as if in disbelief. Then, she crouched down, cupped his face and jerked it once in frustration.

"These past few days," she hiccuped, "y-you have been so distant. I thought . . . I thought you might have come to realize that you could not return my feelings-"

Sherlock clutched at her waist. "These past few days I have been trying not to fall all over my wife because she has just been through an incredible trauma and I love her too much to subject her to my ravenous desires."

Molly's eyes went very large and very round. "Y-You wh-what?"

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He had never outright told her how he felt. What a sorry sod he had been!

"I love you, Molly Holm-"

Before he could finish, his tiny wife launched herself forward to kiss him but instead, she toppled him. He caught her as they went back and then rolled them both over until she was under him. Determined to render her entirely unfit to venture outside, he plucked the pins from her hat and whipped it across the room. She snaked an arm behind his neck and tried to pull him down for a kiss but he laughed against her mouth.

"You did not let me finish," he murmured, "I lov-"

This time, Molly arched herself up and greedily mashed their lips together. Sherlock groaned and chased her lips back down until she rested her head on the floor. Her mouth parted and he succumbed to the lust he had been erroneously repressing. Beneath him she wriggled and her hips bucked. He deepened his kiss, savoring the feel of her jaw moving in tune with his, her wet warmth and the neediness of her tongue as it coaxed his to play. The knot of tension in his gut transformed to something else and he felt his loins stir. When Molly disentangled a leg from her skirts and hooked it over his calf, he snapped his head back.

"Molly Holmes, good god, let me bare my soul to you before we bare anything else," he breathed.

"You love me," she mumbled with a look of hooded satisfaction to her eyes, "that is more than enough confession to sustain me a lifetime."

He settled more of his weight onto her slight frame. It was everything he could do not to gather her up and carry her upstairs to his – their – room. He brushed a few stray tendrils from her face. Everything about her was perfection is his eyes, from her pert nose to her stubborn little chin.

"But it is not enough for me. Molly, when you informed me that you loved me two nights ago . . . I must admit, I did not have full faith in your feelings. I could not fathom anyone loving me, especially not the woman of my dreams."

Her lips fell open. "O-Oh, Sherlock, you are too ridiculous!"

He kissed her briefly. "I thought I would allow you some time before I made a blubbering fool of myself. I wanted to give you a chance to change your mind."

"Never," she shook her head.

"And if you did not change your mind, I wanted to reciprocate my regard properly, to tell you in a manner you deserve . . . aaarg, not . . . not like this, damn!"

Molly's fingers curled into the hair at his nape. "What is wrong with this-"

At that moment, footsteps creaked across the floor.

"Oop! Good lord!"

Both Sherlock and Molly turned their attention to Mrs. Hudson standing above them with her hand to her chest. The older woman heaved in a breath and wagged her head.

"Not on my rug, Sherlock," she warbled, "and Molly! You naughty child!"

He glanced down to see Molly swallow and tuck her lips in.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson huffed. "You two! Hmph, for the love of God, take it up stairs."

Sherlock smirked. "Gladly."

He scrambled up from the floor, then helped Molly up. In the next instant, he scooped her into his arms. Her face went several shades of pink.

"This might be a good time for you to visit your Mr. Moore, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock advised as he climbed the stairs with Molly in his arms.

At their backs, Mrs. Hudson made a sound and her footfalls retreated rapidly towards the back of the house.

* * *

Molly hastily pushed her dress off her shoulders while Sherlock yanked his shirt over his head. Her tummy turned over and then inside out with the look of heat in his eyes. Only seconds later, he crossed the floor naked and fully aroused as she kicked aside her drawers. Next thing she knew, she was tackled to their bed with her husband's considerable weight and straining erection rubbing over her cleft.

"Is this real?" He breathed against her lips.

"Yes," she panted, sliding her feet back towards her until her knees were bent wide apart

"And you are mine?" His voice was incredibly low.

"You know that I am."

Molly brought her hand to her mouth and slathered her fingers with saliva. She needed to be possessed by him, she didn't care that she wasn't entirely ready. She reached between her legs and rubbed the wetness over her sex. She did that once more before closing her hand around Sherlock's manhood and guiding it to her entry. As soon as she felt the press of him, she slid her hand over the tight curve of his bum and urged him forward.

"Molly, there is no need to be hasty," he whispered.

"Take me, husband," she pleaded, "take me, please. I need you."

Sherlock cursed as she thrust her hips up. With a grunt, his thick member plunged into her canal until his hips jerked her towards the headboard. It was savage and her body resisted him with a sticky friction but at the same time, it was everything she hoped she would feel. Her entire inner chamber felt a bit chafed. She moaned. Slowly he moved until he partially retracted. Her body clung to him and then her sex tingled and began to infuse with moisture.

"Unh!" She cried as he pushed back in.

Again, she felt a pulse and sting of arousal. His next stroke slid a bit easier and he was able to pull back a bit more. Still, his return was raw and it wasn't until he pumped in and out of her a half dozen times that his shaft became slick. Then, it was very slick, as if coated with the slipperiest of lubricants.

"Mmm . . . good god, Molly, you are so wet," he muttered.

Molly practically thrashed beneath him as she widened herself to him and dug her fingers into his flexing arse. His manhood was brutally hard and every time he thrust into her and buried himself to his base, she felt a burn of stretch deep in her body. Still, she urged him to increase his pace and the force with which he took her until she was but a vessel for him to act out his animalistic need. She closed her eyes then and lived in that moment. Their bodies were dripping with sweat, her breasts were squashed beneath his chest; her nipples rubbed raw by the friction of his chest hair. She felt the stirring of her release at the juncture of her thighs where his engorged flesh pressed like a fleshy rod against her most sensitive nub. She squeezed him tightly, aching to foster that decadent feeling.

"Huh," she hissed as her sex throbbed.

Sherlock cursed. "I cannot go on for much longer with you doing that . . . oh, hell!"

Molly clamped on him again. She was nearly there. It only took a few more thrusts before she felt herself spinning like a top. Then, a last stroke into her body unbalanced that top and it flew out of control. She keened and sobbed as a spasm wracked her body.

"Molly!" he growled.

One, final shuddering plunge into her quivering body did Sherlock in. He came with a roar like a lion proclaiming his territory. He pushed her an inch or two up the bed as he emptied with a jerk. His shaft twitched and the muscles along its length cascaded like toppling blocks. Several spurts emptied into her body even as he continued to pump faintly into her womb.

"Hmmmmph," he grunted into her collar, "hmmmmph."

They laid there for awhile, a mass of tired limbs until Sherlock withdrew from her warmth with a groan. He collapsed back down beside her and gathered her to him.

"I love you," he kissed her temple, "stay with me. Be my wife, my partner."

Molly nodded. "Truly? You want all of that? A wife . . . a family?"

His fingers curved behind her ear. "Yes, darling. I would not have married you otherwise."

Her nose wrinkled. "But . . . you did not even know me . . . and I was dying!"

"I knew you," he murmured, "I knew you."

Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. Several damp curls fell over his forehead. Large pupils with a sliver of blue-green regarded her seriously. Fingers traced over her brow lovingly.

"I knew the moment I set eyes upon you that you were mine, Molly Holmes."


	38. Epilogue

"What the hell is this?"

Sherlock's tiny wife looked up from the naked, bloated body she had been working on the operating table at the center of the gallery. Her smock was covered with blood and other fluids.

"It is an examination," she said simply.

His lips pulled tightly. He glowered sideways at Lestrade.

"Do not look at me!" the Chief exclaimed, "I meant to have you come take a look at this but you were not at home. Mrs. Holmes-"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Doctor!"

"Excuse me, Dr. Holmes insisted on dissecting the corpse."

Sherlock stomped into the room with John at his back. His anger tempered slightly with Molly's disapproving glower. He coughed.

"But it is not just any corpse, is it?"

His wife's indignant expression faltered. A glimmer of fear rippled underneath her skin. He leaned closer and gazed into her rounded eyes.

"Why did you not wait for me?" he asked softly. "This could have been postponed until I returned."

She chewed her lip. "When the Chief told me who they thought they found, I-I had to see for myself."

Sherlock looked down at the decomposing man retrieved from the Fraser. Despite his grotesque, rotting appearance, what was left of his face was recognizable.

"Thomas Woodley."

He glanced back up. Molly dipped her head.

"Y-Yes, his death was made to look like a suicide."

"'Made to look'?" Sherlock repeated.

Molly reached a gloved hand for something on the table. She shook it out and raised it for everyone to see. Pinched between her fingers was the corner of a creased photo they had all seen before. It was the very same image of Sherlock that had been used to lure her from England. Only this time, someone had scrawled the words, _'You owe me'_ across his face.

Molly's voice quavered. "I found this . . . in his stomach."


End file.
